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VOL.    X. 


GRANT  S:  CO.,  7«  TO  78,  TURNMILL  STREET,  E.C. 





JHE  other  day,  at  the  Literary  Fund  dinner,  in  an 
eloquent  and  practical  address,  the  Right  Hon.  W.  E. 
Gladstone  condemned  the  encouragement  too  often  given 
to  an  aspirant  for  literary  honours  simply  on  the  ground 
of  the  disadvantages  under  which  said  aspirant  had  written.  The 
Premier  said  that  to  support  and  encourage  a  book  simply  because 
it  was  written  by  a  mechanic,  or  by  some  person  who  could  not  be 
expected  from  his  position  to  write  a  book,  was  an  injury  to  the  man 
himself  and  to  society.  All  literary  works  should  stand  on  their  own 
merits,  and  no  man  has  a  right  to  claim  indulgence  because  of  the 
educational  disadvantages  under  which  his  book  may  be  produced. 

I  commend  this  practical  philosophy  to  some  of  my  numerous 
correspondents.  An  editor  suffers  much  at  the  hands  of  uncom- 
missioned contributors;  but  most  from  amateur  writers,  from  men 
and  women  and  young  people  who,  somehow  discovering  that  they 
can  turn  a  rhyme  or  build  up  a  reasonably  good  sentence,  suddenly 
believe  they  have  a  call  to  the  world  of  Letters.  Thereupon  they 
commence  to  pester  editors  everywhere ;  but  as  I  am  here  and 
there  credited  with  the  weakness  of  editorial  courtesy,  they  all  seem 
to  fix  upon  me  for  their  first  or  last  efforts  at  publication. 

In  many  cases  their  MSS.  are  accompanied  by  long  confidential 
letters,  appeals  to  one's  feelings,  attacks  on  one's  sympathy.  Now 
and  then  I  detect  something  of  merit  in  an  amateur  article ; 
but  too  often  the  merit  lies  in  the  evident  disadvantages  of  the 
circumstances  under  which  the  paper  has  been  written.  Misled  on 
this  tack,*  I  return  a  civil  reply  and  say,  "  Try  again ;  you  may 
succeed."  The  writer  tries  again.  He  does  not  succeed.  I  say  so. 
His  MS.  goes  back.  Then  I  have  been  unkind;  I  have  raised  hopes 
only  to  blight  them.  Sometimes  the  MS.  is  lost  or  mislaid,  the 
writer  having  omitted  to  put  his  name  or  address  upon  it.  Then  it 
cannot  be  returned ;  and  the  young  author  pours  out  his  wrath  wildly 
upon  the  editor.  I  sympathise  with  him,  despite  the  suffering  he 
causes ;  but  I  tell  him  now,  as  I  have  told  him  before,  that  if  he 
would  retain  his  literary  treasures,  he  must  keep  copies  of  them. 
This  is  easily  done ;  the  manifold  letter  writer  and  the  copying  press 
are  old  institutions. 

Another  troublesome  contributor  is  the  young  author  whose  first 

vi  Preface. 

article  is  accepted.  Seeing  himself  in  print,  he  thinks  he  has  not 
only  become  famous,  but  has  laid  the  foundation  of  his  fortune.  He 
launches  out  in  social  expenses ;  he  suddenly  appears  in  literary 
society,  and  wants  to  join  an  Art  Club.  He  has  read  those  wonderful 
paragraphs  of  London  Correspondents  about  the  vast  sums  which 
are  paid  to  successful  authors ;  he  expects  for  his  article  a  cheque 
equal  to  a  king's  ransom ;  like  the  Scotchman  (who  made  a  guinea 
joke  in  Punch,  and  came  from  Edinburgh  to  spend  a  week  in  London, 
on  the  strength  of  having  all  his  expenses  paid),  he  is  disappointed. 
He  gets  over  this,  however,  on  the  hope  of  becoming  a  constant 
contributor;  but  finding  his  other  MSS.  rejected,  he  comes  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  editor  is  jealous  of  his  success,  and  at  the  same 
time  pounces  on  the  discovery,  and  declares  it  in  writing,  that  the 
editor  is  not  a  gentleman.  Solemnly  I  caution  this  vast  crowd  of 
young  and  old  that  literature,  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred, 
is  a  forlorn  hope.  It  makes  my  heart  ache  to  see  the  pale  faces, 
the  anxious  eyes  that  haunt  the  outer  passages  of  editorial  rooms, 
and  the  offices  of  publishing  houses.  Everybody  seems  to  think, 
not  only  that  he  can  write,  but  that  he  can  live  by  his  pen.  The 
young  aspirant  is  jostled  by  an  army  of  parsons  and  barristers,  and 
gentlemen  in  Government  employment,  educated  men  not  wholly 
dependent  upon  journalism  and  literature ;  as  a  rule,  this  active  and 
clever  army  writes  well ;  its  industry  is  enormous  ;  it  makes  the  pro- 
fession utterly  impossible  for  thousands  of  other  outsiders  who  swarm 
u  p  from  the  country  in  the  hope  of  taking  a  place  in  the  ranks.  At 
best,  literature  gives  even  comparatively  successful  men  but  a  hard 
crust,  though  Mr.  Jacox,  in  "Aspects  of  Authorship,"  very  properly 
contends  that  the  loaf  of  bread  earned  by  the  competent  author  is 
not  so  hard  and  crusty  as  it  was.  Nevertheless,  he  cannot  help 
quoting  some  of  the  best  known  instances  of  disappointment,  even 
among  successful  men  : — "  Mr.  Carlyle  glances  grimly  at  the  Heynes 
dining  on  boiled  peasecods ;  the  Jean  Pauls  on  water  ;  the  Johnsons 
bedded  and  boarded  on  fourpence  halfpenny  a  day.  So  does  Long- 
fellow at  Johnson  and  Savage  rambling  about  the  streets  of  London 
at  midnight,  without  a  place  to  sleep  in ;  at  Otway,  starved  like  a 
dog ;  at  Goldsmith,  penniless  in  Green  Arbour  Court.  Next  to  the 
*  Newgate  Calendar,'  the  biography  of  authors  is  the  most  sickening 
chapter  in  history"  In  spite  of  modern  successes,  I  would  repeat 
the  question  asked  by  Thackeray  in  1843  :  "  How  much  money 
has  all  the  literature  in  England  in  the  Three  per  Cents.  ?  "  Look  in 
our  own  times  at  the  widows  of  eminent  men  who  are  living  on 
the  scanty  pittance  of  the  Civil   List.     I  could  mention  a  score  of 

Preface.  vii 

modern  instances  of  so-called  successful  men,  leaving  their  families 
in  want — not  that  they  were  spendthrifts,  but  simply  on  account  of 
the  miserable  pittance  which  is  the  wage  even  of  prosperous  writers. 
Ellesmere,  in  "  Friends  in  Council,"  did  not  exaggerate  the  experience 
of  many  clever  men  now  wandering  about  the  streets  of  London  : 
"  Authorship  is  the  last  trade  I  should  think  of  taking  up.  Sooner 
would  I  elect  to  be  one  of  those  men  who  carry  advertising  boards,  like 
tabards,  before  and  behind  them  ....  This  would  be  very  superior 
to  making  a  living  by  literature."  Milverton  agreed  with  Elles- 
mere, and  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  point  out  scores  of  dead  and 
living  illustrations  of  all  that  can  be  said  against  any  man  selecting 
literature  as  a  profession  with  the  hope  of  substantial  pecuniary 
reward.  The  people  of  England  who  buy  newspapers  and  magazines 
do  not  pay  for  the  paper  and  printing,  let  alone  the  authors'  fees.  In 
these  enlightened  days,  when  kings  and  queens  even  enter  the  literary 
lists  with  scholars  and  shoemakers,  periodicals  and  newspapers  have 
actually  to  be  sold  at  a  loss.  It  is  the  tradesman  and  the  shopkeeper, 
the  merchant,  the  financier — in  short,  the  advertiser ■,  who  pays  for  the 
current  literature  of  the  day.  It  is  the  great  pillman,  the  starchmaker, 
the  cocoa  dealer,  the  jeweller,  the  insurance  agent,  the  company 
monger,  who  present  palace  and  cottage  with  their  periodical  litera- 
ture, with  their  daily  journals,  their  religious  magazines,  their  literary 
papers ;  and  this  is  the  danger  which  threatens  the  independence  of 
British  journalism.  It  was  not  so  in  the  early  days  of  newspapers  ; 
it  was  not  so  when  Mr.  Cave  first  introduced  Sylvanus  Urban  to  the 
world.  Journalists  then  had  value  for  their  broadsheets,  and  with  all 
one's  respect  and  admiration  for  the  press  of  England,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  the  age  of  cheap  journalism  has  not  tended  to 
strengthen  the  impartiality  of  general  newspaper  criticism. 

There  are  many  changes — most  of  them  for  the  better,  it  must  be 
confessed — since  »y  ancient  predecessor  wrote  his  Preface  in  1752, 
wherein  he  says,  referring  to  his  cleverest  and  best  contributors, — 
"  Much  the  greater  part  of  them  conceal  themselves  with  such 
secrecy,  that  we  correspond  with  them  by  the  Magazine,  and  can 
make  no  other  than  this  public  acknowledgment  for  favours,  which 
are  equally  the  support  and  honour  of  our  collection."  What  an 
enviable  state  of  things  !  How  vastly  surprised  would  the  writer  be 
if  he  could  return  to  editorial  duties  in  the  present  day  for  only  a 
week.  I  feel  sure  he  would  soon  desire  to  go  back  to  the  Shades. 
Apart  from  the  troubles  hinted  at  in  the  early  part  of  this  article, 
one  encounter  with  the  semi-professional  gentleman  who  insists  on 
seeing  you,  talks  to  you  of  good  subjects  for  articles,  and  then 

viii  Preface, 

swears  you  commissioned  them,  and  threatens  all  sorts  of  legal 
proceedings  if  you  do  not  print  them  and  pay  for  them .  whether 
you  print  them  or  not,  would  settle  him.  He  would  surely  curse 
the  degeneracy  of  the  age,  sigh  for  the  good  old  times  (though  they 
were  bad  old  times  in  many  respects),  and  be  glad  to  leave  the  new 
series  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  in  the  hands  of  the  shilling 
editor.  * 

I  feel  that  I  owe  an  apology  to  many  of  my  readers  for  devoting 
so  much  space  to  what  may  seem  mere  personal  matter.     Perhaps 
they  may  forgive  me  on  the  ground  that,  at  all  events,  this  preface  is 
outside  the  ordinary  and  established  groove.  If  it  induces  any  young 
man  or  woman  to  pause  before  adopting  literature  as  a  profession,  it 
is  worth  the  printing.     In  these  days,  when  everybody  is  to  be  edu- 
cated, and  looking  to  a  future  in  which  a  scholar  will  be  the  rule 
and  not  the  exception,  I  fear  authorship  must  come  more  and  more 
to  be  considered  as  the  luxury  of  those  who  can  afford  to  disregard 
its  pecuniary  rewards  ;  more  of  a  mere  help  than  a  crutch ;  a  thing 
to  be  proud  of  for  its  fame,  but  not  to  live  upon,  more  especially  in 
an  age  of  wealth  and  luxury,  when  successful  business  men  make 
fortunes  without    apparent    effort,  while    the   litterateur    struggles 
miserably  and  in  vain  to  keep  up  as  good  an  appearance  as  the  rich 
who  patronise  him.     Of  course  these  words  will  not  discourage  the 
child  of  genius  burning  to  use  his  God-gifted  powers ;  and  I  would 
be  the  last  to  stay  his  hand.     Nevertheless,  I  warn  him  ;   for  what 
can  he  expect  when  he  counts  upon  his  fingers  the  most  successful 
of  our  authors,  and  carefully  studies  their  most  popular  books  ? 

I  commend  this  present  volume  of  the  oldest  of  all  magazines  to 
the  friendly  criticism  of  its  numerous  readers.  In  the  new  volume 
upon  which  we  are  now  entering  I  hope  to  introduce  to  their  notice, 
in  addition  to  the  general  attractions  of  the  work,  some  hitherto 
unpublished  correspondence  of  Charles  Lamb,  arranged  in  the  shape 
of  an  article  by  an  authoress  of  distinction ;  and  also  some  interesting 
biographical  notes  of  the  early  life  of  the  late  Napoleon  III.,  trans- 
lated from  the  private  diary  of  a  Prussian  lady,  by  the  Countess  of 
Harrington.  A  new  novel  will  follow  the  short  tale,  "  Making  the 
Worst  of  it"  ;  "  Clytie  "  will  run,  I  hope,  through  another  volume ;  the 
"  Life  in  London "  sketches  will  be  continued ;  and  I  have,  in 
addition,  arranged  for  the  publication  of  many  important  and  inte- 
resting papers  in  the  several  departments  of  history,  biography,  sports 
and  pastimes,  literature,  the  drama,  and  society,  from  the  pens  of 
writers  accustomed  to  treat  such  subjects  ably,  thoughtfully,  and 
with  authority.  Joseph  Hatton. 


Buonaparte,  The  Majorcan  Origin  of  the  Family  of.    By  John  Leighton, 

F.S.A 219 

Capital  and  Labour.    An  Inquiry  into  the  Law  of  Conspiracy  and    the 

Rights  of  the  Labourer.    By  John  Baker  Hopkins        .        .        .  549 

Charles  I.     A  Letter  from  a  Citizen  of  Another  World,  to  Sylvanus 

Urban,  Gentleman,  of  London 444 

Charley  Slap's  Hounds.    By  W.  F.  Marshall 424 

Cleveland  :  Royalist,  Wit,  and  Poet.    By  Edwin  Goadby        .        .        .  205 

Clytie.    A  Novel  of  Modern  Life.    By  Joseph  Hatton  :— 

Chap.  I.— On  the  Brink 237 

II. — "Friends  or  Foes?" 241 

III. — In  the  Organ  Loft 244 

IV. — The  Warning 249 

V. — While  Tom  Mayfield  was  Waiting 365 

VI. — Meeting  Calumny  Half  Way  . 372 

VII. — Behind  the  Sunshine  and  Beneath  the  Flowers       .        .        .  378 

VIII. — An  Alliance  against  Fate 489 

IX. — Smoke 494 

X. — Fire 496 

XI. — Ashes 503 

XII. — Alone  in  London 613 

Xm.— Traps  and  Pitfalls 616 

XIV. — Good  Samaritans 623 

Connaught  Man,  The.    By  Alfred  Perceval  Graves    .        .       .        .189 

Crispus.    A  Poetic  Romance  in  Three  Parts : — 

Part  I. 429 

n 540 

HI .670 

x    N  Contents. 


Dead  Stranger,  The.    Translated  from  the  German  of  Zschokke.    By  the 
Rev.  B.  W.  Savile,  M.A. : — 

Chape.  I.— Ill 265 

IV 452 

V. — VII.  (Conclusion) 554 

Duck,  My  First.    By  "  Pathfinder  "   * 199 

Editorial  Mystery,  An.    By  J.  H 51 

Football.    By  "  Sirius  " 385 

Garden  in  Surrey,  A.    By  F.  Walford,  M.A. 168 

Gustave  Dore  at  Work.    By  Blan  chard  Jerrold 299 

Horseback,  On.    By  A  Lady 192 

Hunting  in  the  West,  The  Wind-up  of.    By  W/F.  Marshall         .        .  508 

Isles  of  the  Amazons.    By  Joaquin  Miller.    Part  V 1 

Leaves  from  a  Lost  Diary.  By  M.  Betham-Edwards,  author  of  "  Kitty," 

"  Dr.  Jacob,"  &c 10 

L'Empereur  est  Mort.    By  the  Earl  of  Winchilsea  and  Nottingham  .  479 

Life  in  a  Carriage  and  a  Cart.     By  ««  Octogenarian  "  702 

*t  Lion  King,"  Three  Months  with  a 254 

London,  Life  in  : — 

III. — A  Story  for  Christmas .72 

IV. — Forecasting.    By  Richard  Gowing 151 

V. — The  First  Night  of  the'Session.    By  Edward  Legge        .    326 

VI.— At  Temple  Bar 585 

VII. — Circles  of  Society.    By  Sidney  L.  Blanchard  .        .        .661 

London  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  From      .        .        .         .         .         .         .38 

Love  and  Death.    By  G.  H.  J 451 

Making  the  Worst  of  it.    By  John  Baker  Hopkins  : — 

Chap.  I. — After  Ten  Years 705 

„      II.— The  Father's  Return 711 

„    III. — An  Eminent  Man-Hunter 717 

My  Own  Room.    A  Reverie,  in  Two  Parts.    By  the  Rev.  J.  GoRLE         .    593 

Number  One.    A  Reminiscence  of  Last  Year's  Academy.    By  J.  Ashby- 

Sterry 583 

Oberland  in  January,  The.    By  Charles  Williams         .       .       .        .136 

Offenbach  in  London 25 

Plantagenet's  Well ;  a  True  Story  of  the  Days  of  Richard  HI.    By  Lady 

C  Howard 179 

Contents.  xi 

Pointer  and  Setter  Field  Trials.    By  "  Sirius  " 629 

Poland,  A  Voice  from.    Ostrolenka.    By  the  Earl  of  Ravensworth       •  591 

"PoorTopsy."    By "  Pathfinder  " 68 

Potter  of  Tours,  The.    By  George  Smith 81 

Press,  The  Irish.    By  T.  F.  O'Donnell 223 

, ..       „.         ,  _     { By  Charles  Bradlaugh     . 

Republican  Impeachment,  The.  (  fiy  John  Baker  HopKINS    % 


Shakespeare's  Philosophers  and  Jesters.    By  Charles  Cowden  Clarke  :— 

I. — Philosophers ' 306 

n. — Jesters 392 

HI. — Shakespeare's    Women  ;    considered    as   Philosophers   and 

Jesters 514 

IV. — Shakespeare's  Philosophy 634 

Smithfield  Club  Show,  The.    By"RusTicus" 84 

Sporting  Guns,  Smokeless  Explosives  for.    By  Cadwallader  Waddy    .  62 

Stranger  than  Fiction.    By  the  Author  of  "The  Tallants  of  Barton," 
"  The  Valley  of  Poppies,"  &c.  :— 
Chap.  XLH. — Of  certain  Emigrants  on  Board  the  Hesperus^  and  concern- 
ing  a   well-known   melody   that   led  to  a  delightful 

discovery 94 

XLHI.— A  Storm  on  the  Welsh  Coast 98 

XLIV.— After  the  Storm 104 

XLV.— An  Actor's  Holiday 117 

XLVI. — How  Jacob  performed  a  delicate  negotiation  on  behalf  of 
Mr.  Paul  Ferris,  together  with  other  interesting  infor- 
mation   124 

XLVH.— The  Beginning  of  the  End 129 

XLVHL— A  Letter  from  Mr.  Horatio  Johnson         .        .        .        .  336 

XLIX.— Closing  Scenes 34° 

L. — Mr.  Bonsall  as  a  Cabinet  Minister  seeks  re-election  and  is 

opposed •  344 

IJ. — Which  ends  this  strange,  eventful  History .    ,    .        .        .  353 

Table^Talk.    By  Sylvanus  Urban,  Gentleman     109,  231,  358,  482,  608,  726 

Tennyson's  Last  Idyll.    A  Study.    By  the  Rev.  Dr.  Leary,  D.C.L.        .  76 

Texican  Rangers,  The.    By  Arthur  Clive 57 

Thibet,  A  "  Stalk  "  in.    By  Fred  Wilson f47 

xii  Contents. 

Tichborne  Dole,  The 262 

Valentine,  A.  *  By  M.  Betham-Edwards 218 

Vaterland  in  Britain.    By  Walter  Saville 696 

Venus  on  the  Sun's  Face.  By  R.  A.  PKOCTOK,  B.A.  (Cambridge), 
Honorary  Secretary  of  the  Royal  Astronomical  Society,  Author  of 
"  Saturn,"  "  The  Sun,"  "  Other  Worlds  than  Ours,"  &c.   .  .681 

Verderer  of  Dean  Forest,  The.    By  CHARLES  Pebody      .        .        .         .  439 

Waterloo  Cup,  The.    By  «•  Sntrus  " 292 


Gentleman's  Magazine 

January,  1873. 

Isles  of  the  Amazons. 


Well,  we  have  threaded  through  and  through 
The  gloaming  forests.     Fairy  Isles, 
Begirt  in  God's  eternal  smiles, 

As  fallen  stars  in  fields  of  blue  ; 
Some  futile  wars  with  subtile  love 

That  mortal  never  vanquished  yet, 

Some  symphonies  by  angels  set 
.  In  wave  below,  in  bough  above, 

Were  yours  and  mine  ;  but  here  adieu. 

And  if  it  come  to  pass  some  days 

That  you  grow  weary,  sad,  and  you 
Lift  up  deep  eyes  from  dusty  ways 

Of  mart  and  moneys,  to  the  blue 
And  pure  cool  waters,  isle  and  vine, 

And  bathe  you  there,  and  then  arise 
Refreshed  by  one  fresh  thought  of  mine, 

I  rest  content ;  I  kiss  your  eyes, 
I  kiss  your  hair  in  my  delight  : 
I  kiss  my  hand  to  say  "  Good  night." 

May  love  be  thine  by  sun  or  moon, 
May  peace  be  thine  by  stormy  way 
Through  all  the  darling  days  of  May, 

Through  all  the  genial  days  of  June, 
To  golden  days  that  die  in  smiles 
Of  sunset  on  the  blessed  Isles. 

I  HAT  way  is  familiar  when  journeyed  in  first  ? 

The  new  roads  are  rugged,  the  pilgrimage  hard ; 
No  storied  names  lure  you,  nor  deeds  as  they  erst 
Allured  you  in  songs  of  the  gray  Scian  bard. 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  B 

The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

But  when  spires  shall  shine  on  the  Amazon's  shore, 
From  temples  of  God,  and  time  shall  have  rolled 

Like  a  scroll  from  the  border  the  limitless  wold  ; 

When  the  tiger  is  tamed,  and  the  mono  no  more 

Swings  over  the  waters  to  chatter  and  call 
To  the  crocodile  sleeping  in  rushes  and  fern  ; 
When  cities  shall  gleam,  and  their  battlements  burn 

In  the  sunsets  of  gold,  where  the  cocoa-nuts  fall  : 

And  the  mountains  flash  back  from  their  mantles  of  snow 
The  reflection  of  splendours  from  tower  and  dome 
Of  temples  where  art  has  established  a  home 

More  royal  than  aught  that  the  moderns  may  show  : 

'Twill  be  something  to  lean  from  the  stars  and  to  know 
That  the  engine,  red-mouthing  with  turbulent  tongue, 

The  white  ships  that  come,  and  the  cargoes  that  go, 
We  invoked  them  of  old  when  the  nations  were  young  : 

'Twill  be  something  to  know  that  we  named  them  of  old- 
That  we  said  to  the  nations,  Lo  !  here  is  the  fleece 
That  allures  to  the  rest,  and  the  perfectest  peace, 

With  its  foldings  of  sunlight  shed  mellow  like  gold  : 

That  we  were  the  Carsons  in  kingdoms  untrod, 
We  followed  the  trail  through  the  rustle  of  leaves, 
We  stood  by  the  waves  where  solitude  weaves 

Her  garments  of  mosses,  and  lonely  as  God  : 

That  we  have  made  venture  when  singers  were  young, 
Inviting  from  Grecia,  from  long-trodden  lands 
That  are  easy  of  journeys,  and  holy  from  hands 

Laid  upon  by  the  Masters  when  giants  had  tongue  : 

Yea,  rugged  the  hills,  and  most  hard  of  defeat 
Are  the  difficult  journeys  to  bountiful  song, 

Through  places  not  hallowed  by  fame,  and  the  feet 
Of  the  classical  singers,  made  sacred  to  song. 

Isles  of  the  Amazons. 

But  prophets  should  lead,  to  discover  the  grand 
And  the  beautiful  hidden  in  quarries  of  stone  ; 
Be  leaders  to  point  to  the  fair  and  unknown, 

And  the  far,  and  allure  to  the  sweets  of  a  land. 

Behold  my  Sierras !  new  mountains  of  song  ! 

The  Andes  shall  break  through  wings  of  the  night 

As  the  fierce  condor  breaks  through  the  clouds  in  his  flight ; 

And  we  here  plant  the  cross.     How  long  ?  and  how  long  ? 

Aye,  idle  indeed  !    And  yet  to  have  dared 

On  an  unsailed  sea  may  deserve  some  grace.     .     . 
But  the  harvest  will  come,  and  behold,  my  place 

Shall  be  filled  with  prophets,  to  my  fullest  reward. 

I  reckon  that  love  is  the  bitterest  sweet 
That  ever  laid  hold  on  the  heart  of  a  man, 
A  chain  to  the  soul,  and  to  slumber  a  ban, 

And  a  bane  to  the  brain,  and  a  snare  to  the  feet 

Who  would  ascend  on  the  hollow  white  wings 
Of  love  but  to  fall ;  to  fall  and  to  learn, 
Like  a  moth  and  a  man,  that  the  lights  lure  to  burn, 

That  the  roses  have  thorns,  that  the  honey  bee  stings  ? 

I  say  to  you  surely  that  grief  shall  befall ; 
I  lift  you  my  finger,  I  caution  you  true, 
And  yet  you  go  forward,  laugh  gaily,  and  you 

Must  learn  for  yourself,  and  then  mourn  for  us  all. 

You  had  better  be  drown'd  than  to  love  and  to  dream  ; 
It  were  better  to  sit  on  a  moss-grown  stone, 
And  away  from  the  sun,  and  forever  alone, 

Slow  pitching  white  pebbles  at  trout  in  the  stream, 

B  2 

The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Than  to  dream  for  a  day,  then  awake  for  an  age, 

And  to  walk  through  the  world  like  a  ghost,  and  to  start, 
Then  suddenly  stop,  with  the  hand  to  the  heart 

Pressed  hard,  and  the  teeth  set  savage  with  rage. 

The  clouds  are  above  us,  and  snowy  and  cold, 
And  what  is  beyond  but  the  steel-gray  sky, 
And  the  still  far  stars  that  twinkle  and  lie 

Like  the  eyes  of  a  love  or  delusions  of  gold  ! 

Ah  !  who  would  ascend  ?    The  clouds  are  above. 

Aye  !  all  things  perish ;  to  rise  is  to  fall. 
And  alack  for  loving,  and  alas  for  love, 

And  alas  that  there  ever  are  lovers  at  all. 

And  alas  for  a  heart  that  is  left  forlorn  ! 

If  you  live  you  must  love ;  if  you  love,  regret — 
It  were  better,  perhaps,  we  had  never  been  born, 

Or  better,  at  least,  we  could  well  forget 

And  yet,  after  all,  it  is  harder  to  die 

Of  a  broken  up  heart  than  one  would  suppose. 

The  clouds  blow  on,  and  we  see  that  the  rose 
Of  heaven  is  born  of  a  turbulent  sky. 

The  singer  stood  forth  in  the  fragrance  of  wood, 
But  not  as  alone,  and  he  chid  in  his  heart, 
And  subdued  his  soul,  and  assumed  his  part 

With  a  passionate  will,  in  the  palms  where  he  stood  ; 

Then  he  reached  his  hand,  like  to  one  made  strong 
In  a  strange  resolve  to  a  questionable  good, 
And  he  shook  his  hair,  made  free  from  his  mood, 

Forgot  his  silence  and  resumed  his  song : 

Isles  of  the  Amazons. 

"  She  is  sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  Castile  rose, 
She  is  warm  to  the  heart  as  a  world  of  wine, 

And  as  rich  to  behold  as  the  rose  that  grows 
With  its  red  heart  bent  to  the  tide  of  the  Rhine. 

"  O  hot  blood  born  of  the  heavens  above  ! 

I  shall  drain  her  soul,  I  shall  drink  her  up. 
I  shall  love  with  a  searching  and  merciless  love, 

I  shall  sip  her  lips  as  the  brown  bees  sup 

"  From  the  great  gold  heart  of  the  buttercup  ! 

I  shall  live  and  love  !     I  shall  have  my  day. 
Let  the  suns  fall  down  or  the  moons  rise  up, 

And  die  in  my  time,  and  who  shall  gainsay  ? 

"  What  boots  me  the  battles  that  I  have  fought 
With  self  for  honour  ?     My  brave  resolve  ; 
And  who  takes  note  ?     The  senses  dissolve 

In  a  sea  of  love,  and  the  land  is  forgot. 

"  And  the  march  of  men  and  the  drift  of  ships, 
And  the  dreams  of  fame,  and  desires  for  gold. 
They  shall  go  for  aye,  as  a  tale  that  is  told, 

Nor  divide  for  a  day  ray  lips  from  her  lips. 

"  And  a  knight  shall  rest,  and  none  shall  say  nay, 
In  a  green  Isle  washed  by  an  arm  of  the  seas, 
And  walled  from  the  world  by  the  white  Andes, 

For  the  years  are  of  age  and  can  go  their  way." 

The  sentinel -stood  on  the  farthermost  land, 
And  shouted  aloud  to  the  shadowy  forms.  .  .  . 
"  He  comes,"  she  cried,  "  in  the  strength  of  storms," 

And  struck  her  shield,  and,  her  sword  in  hand, 

The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

She  cried,  "  O  Queen  of  the  sun-kissed  Isle, 

He  comes  as  a  wind  conies,  blown  from  the  seas, 
In  a  cloud  of  canoes,  on  the  curling  breeze, 

With  his  shields  of  tortoise  and  of  crocodile, 

"  He  is  girt  in  copper,  with  silver  spears, 
With  flint-tipped  arrows  and  bended  bows, 

To  take  our  blood,  though  we  give  him  tears, 
And  to  flood  our  Isle  in  a  world  of  woes." 

She  rushed  her  down  where  the  white  tide  ran,     ' 
She  breasted  away  where  the  breakers  reeled, 

She  shook  her  sword  at  the  foeman's  van, 
And  beat,  as  the  waves  beat,  sword  on  shield. 

She  dared  them  come  like  a  storm  of  seas, 

To  come  as  the  winds  come  fierce  and  frantic — 
As  sounding  down  to  the  far  Atlantic, 

And  sounding  away  to  the  deep  Andes. 

Sweeter  than  swans  are  a  maiden's  graces  ! 

Sweeter  than  fruits  are  the  kisses  of  morn  ! 

Sweeter  than  babes  is  a  love  new-born, 
But  sweeter  than  all  are  a  love's  embraces. 

She  slept  at  peace  in  the  holy  places, 
Sacred  alone  to  the  splendid  Queen  ; 
She  slept  in  peace  in  the  opaline 

Hush  and  blush  of  the  tropic  graces. 

And  bound  about  by  the  twining  glory, 
Vine  and  trellis  in  the  vernal  morn, 
As  still  and  as  sweet  as  a  babe  new-born, 

The  brown  Queen  listens  to  the  old  new  story. 

Isles  of  the  Amazons. 

But  hark'!  her  sentry's  passionate  words, 
The  sound  of  shields,  and  the  clash  of  swords ! 
And  slow  she  comes  with  her  head  on  her  breast, 
And  her  two  hands  held  as  to  plead  for  rest. 

Where,  O  where,  are  the  Juno  graces  ? 

Where,  O  where,  is  the  glance  of  Jove, 
When  the  Queen  comes  forth  from  the  sacred  places, 

Hidden  away  in  the  heart  of  the  grove  ? 

They  rallied  around  as  of  old — they  besought  her, 
With  swords  to  the  sun  and  the  sounding  shield, 
To  lead  them  again  to  the  glorious  field, 

So  sacred  to  Freedom  ;  and,  breathless,  they  brought  her 

Her  buckler  and  sword,  and  her  armour  all  bright 
With  a  thousand  gems  enjewelled  in  gold. 
She  lifted  her  head  with  the  look  of  old, 

For  an  instant  only ;  with  all  of  her  might 

She  strove  to  be  strong  and  majestic  again  : 
She  bared  them  her  arms  and  her  ample  breast, 
They  lifted  her  armour,  they  strove  their  best 

To  clasp  it  about  her  ;  but  they  strove  in  vain. 

It  closed  no  more,  but  clanged  on  the  ground, 
Like  the  fall  of  a  king,  with  an  ominous  sound, 
And  she  cried,  "  Alas  ! " — and  she  smote  her  breast — 
"  For  the  nights  of  love  and  the  noons  of  rest" 

And  her  warriors  wondered ;  but  they  stood  apart, 
And  trailed  their  swords,  and  subdued  their  eyes 
To  earth  in  sorrow  and  in  hushed  surprise, 

And  forgot  themselves  in  their  pity  of  heart. 

8  The  Gentleman9 s  Magazine. 

" 0  Isles  of  the  Sun,"  cried  the  blue-eyed  youth, 
"  O  Edens  pew-made  and  let  down  from  above  ! 
Be  sacred  to  peace  and  to  passionate  love, 

Made  happy  in  tears  and  made  holy  with  truth. 

"  O  gardens  of  God,  new-planted  below  ! 

Shall  rivers  be  red ?     Shall  day  be  night?" 
And  he  stood  in  the  wood  with  his  face  to  the  foe, 

And  apart  with  his  buckler  and  sword  for  the  fight. 

But  the  fair  Isle  filled  with  the  fierce  invader  ; 
He  formed  on  the  strand,  he  lifted  his  spears, 
Where  never  was  man  for  years  and  for  years, 

And  moved  on  the  Queen.     She  lifted  and  laid  her 

Finger-tip  to  her  lips.     And  O  sweet 
Was  the  song  of  love,  and  the  song  new-born, 
That  the  minstrel  blew  in  the  virgin  morn, 

Away  where  the  trees  and  the  soft  sands  meet. 

The  strong  men  leaned  and  their  shields  let  fall, 
And  slowly  they  moved  with  their  trailing  spears, 
And  heads  bowed  down  as  if  bent  with  years, 

And  an  air  of  gentleness  over  them  all. 

And  the  men  grew  glad  as  the  song  ascended, 
They  leaned  their  lances  against  the  palms, 
And  they  reached  their  arms  as  to  reach  for  alms, 

And  the  Amazons  came — and  their  reign  was  ended. 

They  reached  their  arms  to  the  arms  extended, 
Put  by  their  swords,  and  no  more  seemed  sad, 

But  moved  as  the  men  moved,  tall  and  splendid — 
Mingled  together,  and  were  all  made  glad. 

Then  the  Queen  stood  tall,  as  of  old  she  had  stood, 
With  her  face  to  the  sun  and  her  breast  to  the  foe  ; 
Then  moved  like  a  king,  unheeding  and  slow, 

And  aside  to  the  singer  in  the  fringe  of  the  wood. 

Isles  of  the  A  mazons. 

She  led  him  forth,  and  she  bade  him  sing  : 

Then  bade  him  cease  ;  and  the  gold  of  his  hair 

She  touched  with  her  hands ;  she  embraced  him  there, 

Then  lifted  her  voice  and  proclaimed  him  King. 

And  the  men  made  fair  in  their  new-found  loves, 
They  all  cried  "  King  !  "  and  again  and  again, 
Cried  "  Long  may  they  live,  and  long  may  they  reign, 

And  be  true  to  their  loves  as  the  red-billed  doves  : 

"  Ay,  long  may  they  live,  and  long  may  they  love, 
And  their  blue-eyed  babes  with  the  years  increase, 
And  we  all  have  love,  and  we  all  have  peace, 

While  the  seas  are  below  or  the  sun  is  above. 

"  Let  the  winds  blow  fair  and  the  fruits  be  gold, 
And  the  gods  be  gracious  to  King  and  Queen, 
While  the  tides  are  gray  or  the  Isles  are  green, 

Or  the  moons  wax  new,  or  the  moons  wane  old  ! " 


Leaves  from  a  Lost  Diary. 


June  l$tk,  Morning. 

'T  is  hardly  light,  and  yet  I  am  up  and  dressed,  counting  with 
anxious  heart  the  hours  that  must  elapse  before  my  husband's 
return.  All  night  long  I  lay  awake,  trying  to  see  some  way 
of  escape  out  of  the  misery  and  shame  before  me;  but 
could  discover  none.  Before  nightfall  he  will  be  here,  anc}  will  have 
learned  all  from  my  own  lips.  As  I  look  at  myself  in  the  glass  I 
start  back,  horrified  at  the  ghost  of  the  once  happy  creature  I  used 
to  see  there.  Will  Harry  recognise  in  this  woe-begone,  hollow-eyed 
spectre  the  young  wife  he  left  a  few  months  ago  ?  Were  my  hair 
only  grey  I  should  look  quite  old. 

How  shall  I  tell  him  ?  In  the  first  hour  of  his  home-coming,  or  a 
little  later,  when  we  sit  before  the  fire  in  the  twilight  ?  Will  he  send 
<-;me  away  from  him,  and  bid  me  never  cross  his  path  again  ?  Will  he 
let  me  stay  in  his  home  still,  his  wife  in  name,  in  all  else  his  burden, 
his  curse,  his  enemy  ?  I  do  not  know ;  I  have  never  yet  seen  my 
husband  angry. 

As  I  look  back  I  can  recall  the  beginning  of  temptation.  We  had 
been  married  only  a  few  months  when  we  went  to  London,  and 
Harry  introduced  me  to  his  friends  and  relations.  He  was  not  rich, 
and  in  marrying  a  country  vicar's  daughter  without  a  penny  had 
affronted  his  own  family,  who  had  hitherto  boasted  of  having  no 
poor  relations  belonging  to  them.  I  was  now  that  poor  relation. 
"  Put  on  all  your  finery,"  he  said  to  me  a  day  or  two  before  my 
introduction  was  to  take  place ;  "  my  cousin  John's  wife  is  a  grand 
personage,  and  I  do  not  wish  her  to  say  that  I  have  married  a  dowdy." 
I  ransacked  my  poor  little  wardrobe  with  dismay.  What  else  could 
I  be  but  a  dowdy  ?  I  cried  with  vexation  as  I  saw  how  poor  a  figure 
I  should  make  at  Lady  Mary's  in  my  cheap  silk  dress  and  coral 
ornaments.  No  ;  to  go  in  such  attire  was  impossible.  I  sat  on  my 
trunk,  debating  in  my  mind  which  of  two  things  was  best  to  do — to 
go  sullenly  to  Harry  and  say  that  unless  he  could  give  me  some 
money  for  a  new  dress  I  must  stay  at  home,  or,  what  was  much 
easier,  to  procure  a  dress  and  jewels  without  saying  anything  about  the 

Leaves  from  a  Lost  Diary.  1 1 

matter,  and  to  pay  for  them  by  quarterly  instalments  of  my  allow- 
ance. Surely  there  would  be  nothing  wrong  in  that !  When  Harry 
promised  to  give  me  fifty  pounds  a  year  he  made  no  bargain  as  to 
the  manner  of  spending  it  I  put  on  my  bonnet  and  shawl  and 
went  straight  to  a  jeweller's  shop,  whither  Harry  had  taken  me  to 
choose  my  betrothal  ring.  The  man  recognised  me,  and  when  I 
asked,  blushing  and  hesitating,  if  I  might  pay  for  the  things  I  wished 
to  buy  in  a  short  time  hence,  he  assured  me  nothing  would  be  more 
agreeable  to  him.  I  was  persuaded  to  take  away  what  seemed, 
amidst  the  splendour  before  me,  a  very  modest  set  of  pearl  and 
ruby  ornaments  ;  then  I  went  to  a  milliner  and  ordered  a  white  satin 
dress,  returning  home  intoxicated  with  the  foretaste  of  my  triumphs. 

All  that  Harry  said  on  seeing  me  ready  dressed  to  go  with  him 
was,  "  So  ;  you  have  got  some  new  clothes — and  they  well  become 
you  !  But  you  must  make  your  allowance  do,  my  poor  little  girl, 
and  not  get  into  trouble."  I  suppose  the  bare  suspicion  of  debt 
just  occurred  to  him.  This  was  the  beginning  of  harm.  My  first 
appearance  was  successful,  and  Harry  came  away  better  pleased 
with  me  than  ever. 

"  It  is  highly  desirable  that  you  impress  my  relations  favourably," 
he  said,  as  we  drove  home.  "They  are  all  rich,  and  half  of  them  are 
childless" — and  then  he  stopped,  as  if  shocked  at  his  own  suggestion- 
It  was  a  worldly  thought,  but  I  could  not  help  dwelling  upon  it ;  and 
the  more  I  saw  of  the  luxurious  world  outside  our  own,  the  more 
discontented  I  felt.  Bouquets,  flowers,  jewels,  and  perfumes  never 
tired  me.  I  looked  upon  our  little  home  as  a  prison-house ;  and 
Harry,  who  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  wit,  liked  society  for 
different  reasons,  and  was  welcome  wherever  he  went.  Thus  we 
soon  saw  ourselves  dragged  into  a  round  of  dinners,  soire'es,  and 

I  suppose  jewels  excite  the  same  passion  in  women  as  cards  and 
wine  do  in  men.  I  know  that  from  the  first  time  of  procuring  those 
fatal  ornaments  I  felt  an  insatiable  craving  for  others.  Two  or 
three  gifts  from  my  husband's  aunts,  mostly  antiquated  ear-rings  and 
brooches,  did  not  satisfy  me.  I  wanted  something  more  in  keeping 
with  my  youth,  that  youth  of  which  I  had  heard  nothing  in  my 
country  home,  but  which  was  always  being  praised  now;  to  have 
smooth  cheeks,  red  lips  and  dimples,  seemed  a  virtue  among 
my  husband's  relations,  and  to  compensate  in  some  degree  for  my 
sinful  poverty;  they  petted  me  and  flattered  me — especially  the 
men — till  I  took  great  credit  to  myself  for  being  pretty,  and  thought 
it  only  right  that  I  should  do  justice  to  such  good  qualities.     Thus 

1 2  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

it  came  about  that  from  small  beginnings  I  grew  to  be  overwhelmed 
with  debt.  I  never  got  a  new  dress  or  ornament  without  making 
some  virtuous  resolve,  just  as  upon  the  heel  of  any  poor  little 
economy  I  was  sure  to  commjt  some  fresh  extravagance.  There  was 
always  the  hope  that  Harry's  income  would  increase.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  Government  would  let  us  go  on  starving  much  longer 
upon  six  hundred  a  year !  Again,  there  was  the  chance  of  a  legacy 
any  day.  When  real  anxiety  stared  me  in  the  face,  it  was  staved  oft 
with  such  arguments  as  these ;  though  for  the  most  part  I  lived  in 
happy  unconcern.  A  year  ago  I  began  to  be  uneasy  because  I  was 
asked  to  pay  a  milliner  by  whom  I  had  at  first  been  begged  to  get  into 
debt.  Harry  was  just  then  very  much  worried  about  his  own  affairs, 
and  I  felt  that  I  would  rather  part  with  every  one  of  my  beloved 
jewels  than  go  to  any  of  his  family.  I  racked  my  brain,  and  at  last 
could  only  hit  upon  my  sister  Janey  as  the  person  likely  to  help  me. 
She  kept  house  for  my  father,  and  though  they  had  only  a  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  a  year  to  live  upon,  they  were  so  careful  that  they 
always  had  a  little  to  give  away  to  the  poor.  Janey's  answer  and  five 
pounds  came  back  by  return  of  post.  "  Dearest  Lucy,"  she  wrote, 
"  I  send  all  I  have  ;  but  I  dare  not  mention  what  you  have  done  to 
our  father.     It  would  break  his  heart." 

That  letter  made  me  laugh  and  cry.  Kind,  simple  Janey  !  What 
was  such  a  sum  as  five  pounds  to  poor  debt-burdened  me  ?  I  felt  half 
disposed  to  send  it  back,  and  only  refrained  because  I  knew  how 
greatly  it  would  vex  my  sister.  The  milliner  was  appeased  by  some 
device  for  a  time,  however,  and  then  my  worries  began  afresh.  Now 
it  was  a  jeweller,  now  a  hairdresser,  now  a  lace-cleaner,  who  showed 
growing  signs  of  uneasiness.  Again  and  again,  I  was  on  the  point  of 
going  to  my  husband  and  confessing  all,  but  could  not  summon 
courage.  At  last  he  was  sent  abroad  for  a  few  months  on  official 
business,  and  I  determined  somehow  to  set  things  right  before  he 
came  home.  How  the  time  has  passed  I  cannot  tell.  It  seems  only 
yesterday  that  there  remained  a  long  reprieve  before  me,  but  now 
it  is  gone  !  Looking  back,  I  feel  that  if  I  had  strained  every  nerve  I 
might  still  have  avoided  this  disgrace.  I  might  have  urged  upon  the 
jewellers  to  take  back  their  goods.  I  might  have  humbled  myself 
before  some  of  my  husband's  relations,  and  borrowed  the  necessary 
money  of  them.  It  seems  to  me,  as  I  sit  here  in  despair,  that  I  might 
have  done  a  hundred  things  to  avert  the  ruin  hanging  over  me.  Oh  ! 
father,  father !  what  would  you  say  if  you  could  see  your  poor  little  Lucy 
now?  Would  you  believe  her  if  she  told  the  reason  of  her  tears  and 
self-abasement  ?     As  I  write  this,  the  remembrance  of  my  wedding- 

Leaves  from  a  Lost  Diary.  .  1 3 

day  comes  back  to  me ;  the  pride  of  it,  the  joy  of  it,  the  hope  of  it ! 
My  father  could  hardly  have  felt  prouder  had  he  married  me  to  a 
prince.  Harry  was  so  handsome,  so  clever,  so  well-born !  Com- 
pared to  ourselves,  too,  he  seemed  quite  rich,  and  whenever  he  took 
me  home  on  a  visit,  we  were  looked  upon  as  grand  folks  by  all  the 
neighbours.     Ah,  me  !  how  shall  I  ever  bear  to  go  home  again  ? 

Evening. — Whilst  I  was  writing  this  morning  Harry  came.  He 
had  travelled  all  night  in  order  to  get  home  a  few  hours  sooner, 
having  great  news  to  communicate  to  me.  I  listened  without  a  word, 
and  in  his  elation  he  did  not  notice  how  I  trembled.  I  had  never 
before  seen  him  so  gay  and  so  eager. 

"  Lucy,"  he  cried,  "  Fortune  smiles  upon  us  at  last,  and  if  we 
choose,  the  days  of  our  poverty  and  insignificance  are  over.  I  have 
had  a  Government  appointment  in  India  and  a  thousand  a  year 
offered  me.  Yes  or  no  ?  Shall  we  stay  here,  beggars,  or  go  to  a  new 
country,  and  live  in  ease  all  the  rest  of  our  lives  ?" 

There  was  not  a  trace  of  the  indifference  and  coldness  of  manner 
habitual  with  him  as  he  said  this,  and,  without  waiting  for  my  answer, 
he  went  on  enthusiastically: — 

"  You,  Lucy,  will  be  a  little  queen  out  there,  and  I  shall  no  longer 
be  a  mere  drudging  clerk,  a  bond  slave  of  routine.  I  have  always 
been  ambitious,  as  you  know,  and  at  last  I  see  a  chance  of  doing 
something  with  my  life.  But  what  is  the  matter?  you  are  white  as 
death.     Oh!  child,  what  can  have  happened?" 

"  I  am  not  ill,  Harry ;  don't  be  frightened ;  but  I  have  done  some- 
thing very  wrong,  and  the  dread  of  telling  you  has  made  me  like 

He  dropped  my  hand,  and  turning  very  pale,  scrutinised  me  for  a 
second,  I  know  not  with  what  dreadful  thought  in  his  mind;  then  we 
sat  down  side  by  side  on  the  sofa,  and  I  told  him  as  best  I  could. 

" How  much  do  you  owe  altogether?"  he  asked. 

"  Fifteen  hundred  pounds,"  I  faltered  out 

"  Fifteen  hundred  pounds  !  Income  of  two  years  and  a  half !  Oh, 

That  was  all  he  said,  but  his  manner  of  saying  it  I  shall  never 
forget.  Then  he  left  me,  saying  that  he  must  have  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  to  himself  to  think  of  what  could  be  done ;  and  at  the  end  of 
that  time  he  came  back  to  me. 

"  Lucy,"  he  said,  quite  calmly,  and  almost  without  looking  at  me, 
"  to  accept  that  post  is  now  impossible.     I  cannot  begin  a  new  life 

14  The  Gentletnaris  Magazine. 

with  a  clog  of  debt  round  my  neck  ;  and  moreover,  it  would  be  dis- 
honourable. The  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  give  up  housekeeping 
for  the  present.  You  can  stay  with  your  father ;  I  will  ask  to  be  sent 
abroad  again  for  a  few  months ;  and  by  this  means  we  may  set  things 
straight  in  time.  Take  what  books  and  clothes  you  like  with  you  to 
the  vicarage,  because  all  the  other  things  will,  of  course,  be  sold." 

I  stood  aghast. 

"Have  you  anything  better  to  suggest?"  he  asked  in  the  same 
calm  voice. 

"  Oh  !  Harry,  must  we  be  separated  after  this  long  absence^  Must 
you  give  up  that  appointment  ?"  I  asked  with  suppressed  tears. 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  better  that  we  should  be  separated,"  he  answered ; 
"  and  as  to  the  appointment,  I  would  rather  lose  the  viceroyalty  of 
India  than  go  about  borrowing  money  to  pay  my  wife's  debts  with. 
No,  Lucy,  we  have  a  little  pride  left  us  yet" 

With  that  he  turned  to  go,  looking  back  on  the  threshold  to  add  : 
"You  had  better  apprise  your  father  of  your  arrival  by  telegraph,  and 
go  to-night." 

"Won't  to-morrow  do  ?"  I  said.  "My  father  will  think  something 
terrible  has  happened  by  such  a  sudden  appearance." 

"  And  has  nothing  terrible  happened  ?  Such  as  the  truth  is,  we 
must  look  it  in  the  face.     We  are  ruined,  Lucy." 

He  took  out  his  watch. 

"  It  is  now  quite  early,  only  mid-day.  You  can  surely  pack  your 
clothes  by  six  o'clock,  when  I  will  be  back,  if  possible,  to  take  you 
to  the  station.     I  must  go  out  at  once." 

He  went  away,  and  in  less  than  two  hours  I  got  the  following 
letter  : — 

"  Dear  Lucy, — It  is  impossible  for  me  to  be  home  soon  enough 
to  see  you  off.  Your  maid  will  do  it  very  well.  I  enclose  twenty 
pounds,  and  will  send  you  as  much  more  in  two  months'  time :  but 
please  make  it  last  as  long  as  that  I  have  telegraphed  to  your 
sister.     God  bless  you.  "  Harry." 

I  read  over  those  three  kind  words — "  God  bless  you  !"  again  and 
again,  trying  to  console  myself  with  them  for  the  severity  of  the  rest. 
Was  my  punishment  greater  than  I  deserved  ?  No ;  how  could  that 
be,  after  deceiving  him  as  I  had  done  ?  I  felt  rather  that  if  he  went 
for  a  year  without  forgiving  me  I  should  still  have  no  right  to 
complain  ;  but  I  longed  to  say  that,  to  have  his  assurance  that 
by-and-by  all  would  be  with  us  as  of  old.  I  could  not  bear  the 
thought  that  another  long  parting  was  before  us ;  and,  as  yet,  I  had 
said  nothing  about  my  shame  and  sorrow. 

Leaves  from  a  Lost  Diary.  1 5 

I  had  to  leave  off  writing  to  get  ready  for  my  journey,  and  now  I 
am  home  again.  What  Harry  had  said  in  his  telegram  I  did  not 
know,  but  I  saw  from  Janey's  face,  when  she  met  me  at  the  station, 
that  she  guessed  something  was  wrong.  She  said  very  little  as  we 
walked  home  in  the  summer  twilight — wild  roses  shedding  perfume — 
nightingales  singing — the  evening  star  shining — everything  peaceful 
but  my  heart.  Janey  whispered,  as  we  reached  the  little  garden  gate, 
"  Lucy,  darling,  let  us  say  as  little  as  we  can  to  frighten  father.  He 
is  much  feebler  than  when  you  were  here  last." 

"  Did  Harry  tell  you— all?"  I  asked. 

"  Hush,  there  is  father,"  she  said,  and  the  next  moment  I  was  in 
my  father's  arms,  and  he  was  crying  partly  from  joy  to  see  me  again 
and  partly  from  some  vague  suspicion  that  I  had  come  because  I  was 
in  trouble.  We  sat  down  to  supper,  as  usual,  in  the  homely  little 
parlour,  all  three  trying  to  be  cheerful.  After  prayers — which  Janey 
read  now  because  of  our  father's  failing  voice — he  blessed  us  both, 
and  said  to  me  : — 

"  Trust  in  God,  Lolo  " — my  pet  home-name — "  and  do  your  duty 
to  your  husband,  then  all  will  come  right  in  time." 

"  Father  suspects  that  you  and  Harry  have  quarrelled,"  Janey  said, 
when  we  were  alone  in  the  little  old-fashioned  bed  room  we  had 
occupied  as  children.     "  Oh  !  Lolo,  is  that  so  ?" 

Harry,  then,  had  not  told  her.  For  a  moment  I  hesitated — but  for 
a  moment  only.  I  could  not  deceive  my  sister  Janey,  who  had  loved 
me  from  childhood  with  a  perfect  love ;  and  with  cheek  laid  to  cheek, 
and  arms  entwined,  we  sat  together  and  I  confessed  all.  Janey, 
instead  of  reproaching,  tried  to  comfort  and  strengthen  me  by  hold- 
ing out  a  hope  of  atonement  and  reconciliation.  She  said  she  was 
sure  that  Harry  would  soon  forgive  if  he  saw  me  determined  to  amend, 
and  she  blamed  me,  though  in  the  tenderest  manner,  for  not  having 
prepared  him  by  a  letter,  instead  of  permitting  him  to  come  home 
buoyed  up  with  hope  and  expectation.  "No  man,"  she  said, 
"  could  help  feeling  it  hard  that  the  very  good  fortune  he  had  longed 
for,  when  put  within  hand's  reach,  should  be  dashed  aside,  perhaps 
for  ever,  by  his  own  wife — especially  a  wife  who  owes  all  to  her 
husband,  as  you  do."  Janey  went  on  in  the  same  tone  of  quiet 
reproach.  "Think  how  penniless  you  went  to  Harry,  and  how 
generous  he  was.  Why,  even  your  wedding  gown  was  his  gift,  and  in 
everything  he  behaved  as  liberally  as  a  man  could  do.  But  you  can 
help  him  to  get  clear  of  difficulties.  Send  back  that  twenty  pounds 
to  begin  with;  we  are  rich  enough  to  entertain  our  Lolo,  and  perhaps 
you  and  I  may  even  devise  some  plan  of  earning  a  little." 

1 6  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

With  these  last  comforting  words  she  left  me,  and  after  having 
written  for  an  hour  I  feel  as  if  I  could  go  to  sleep.  When  I  am 
happy  again  I  shall  not  want  to  keep  a  diary,  but  during  Harry's 
absence  I  feel  it  like  a  friend  in  sympathy  with  me.  I  dared  not  speak 
of  my  troubles  to  any  one.  If  things  never  do  come  right  between  us 
two  I  will  keep  what  I  have  written,  and  Harry  will  read  it  when  I  am 
dead  and  forgive  me. 

June  2%th. 

How  dreary  and  unfamiliar  seems  the  old  home  life  to  me  now ! 
What  happens  one  day  happens  the  next,  and  no  more  important 
event  ever  takes  place  than  an  invitation  to  the  neighbouring  rectory 
or  a  village  funeral.  I  wonder  at  Janey's  cheerfulness  as  she  gets  up 
every  morning  to  the  same  dull  round  of  duties — helping  in  the  Sun- 
day school,  reading  to  the  old  women,  attending  to  her  garden,  and 
so  on.  She  never  seems  to  think  that  there  is  another  world  outside 
this — a  world  of  bouquets  and  music,  balls  and  operas;  and  looks 
distressed  whenever  I  recall  it.  "  Try  to  make  yourself  happy  with 
simple  pleasures,"  she  says  to  me  again  and  again,  "  and  in  helping 
others.  There  is  the  secret  of  a  really  contented  mind."  What 
simple  pleasures  can  I  make  myself  happy  with  ?  And  what 
can  I  do  to  help  others — I  mean  Harry?  Janey  has  racked  her 
brain  to  discover  some  method  of  earning  money,  and  the  only 
one  we  have  hit  upon  will  bring  in  just  twenty-five  pounds 
a  year — that  is,  by  having  the  little  girls  of  some  neighbours  here 
every  day  to  teach.  At  first  Janey  would  not  hear  of  my  helping 
her ;  Harry  would  be  vexed,  she  said  ;  but  I  insisted  upon  teaching 
music,  for  which  Harry  had  given  me  masters  in  London ;  and  now 
we  teach  three  dull  children  every  morning  for  the  sake  of  ten 
shillings  a  week  !  The  only  thing  I  can  smile  at  is  the  contrast 
between  our  ambition  and  our  achievement.  I  dare  not  let  poor 
Janey  see  this,  for  she  is  always  hopeful 

I  wish  I  could  be  happy,  but  I  never  wake  in  the  morning  without 
longing  that  the  day  was  already  at  an  end.  We  have  prayers  at  eight 
o'clock,  then  breakfast,  teach  and  do  parish  work  till  dinner-time,  after 
which  we  sit  in  the  summer-house  with  our  books  and  needlework. 
On  Sundays  we  put  on  our  best  clothes  and  go  twice  to  church.  This 
is  our  ordinary  life,  and  in  spite  of  father's  kindness  and  Janey's  devo- 
tion, I  weary  of  it — I  almost  hate  it. 

And  all  this  time  Harry  does  not  write  ! 

To-night  Janey  came  into  our  room  pale  and  trembling.  I  was 
sitting  on  the  bed  in  the  twilight — we  go  to  bed  so  early  that  we 

Leaves  from  a  Lost  Diary.  1 7 

want  no  candles — thinking  how  much  pleasanter  it  would  be  to  be 
dressing  for  a  ball  at  that  hour,  when  she  sat  down  beside  me  and 
began  to  cry. 

"  Lolo,"  she  said,  "  father  knows  all.  I  have  tried  to  keep  it  from 
him,  but  he  heard  something  that  awakened  his  suspicions  when  at 
the  rector's  this  afternoon,  and  on  being  questioned  I  could  not 
deceive  him." 

My  heart  sank  within  me ;  to  have  Harry  bitter  and  unforgiving 
seemed  punishment  enough.     Janey  went  on,  very  sadly  : — 

"  I  never  told  father  anything  except  that  you  and  Harry  had  got 
into  money  difficulties  and  had  not  been  quite  happy  together  of  late, 
and  he  naturally  guessed  it  was  your  husband  who  was  in  the  wrong. 
You  he  never  suspected — his  youngest,  his  favourite."  Here  she 
clasped  me  close  with  many  kisses.  "  But  now  there  is  nothing  to 
conceal,  Lolo,  and  we  must  bear  his  sorrow  as  best  we  can." 

"  Is  he  very  angry  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  Lolo  !  was  our  father  ever  angry  with  us  when  we  did  wrong 
as  children  ?  He  is  grieved  and  ashamed,  that  is  all.  He  says  that 
he  can  never  lift  up  his  head  again." 

"  Janey,  let  me  go  away.  I  will  ask  Harry  to  take  me  in,  or  I  will 
earn  my  living  as  a  governess.  I  will  beg  in  the  streets  rather  than 
bring  disgrace  upon  you  all." 

"  As  if  we  minded  disgrace  or  anything  so  long  as  we  could  make 
things  right  between  you  two !  Do  you  think  Harry  would  accept 
aid  from  him  ?"  Janey  asked,  in  a  timid  voice. 

"Never,  never!" 

"  Because  there  is  the  hundred  pounds  he  has  saved  up,  besides  a 
small  sum  deposited  in  the  bank.  Don't  you  think  you  could  per- 
suade Harry  to  take  this  little  help  from  us  ?    It  is  so  very  little." 

"  I  will  not  ask  him,"  I  answered.  "  It  would  be  mean  to  rob  you 
of  all  the  money  you  have  in  the  world.  No,  Janey,  don't  want  me 
to  do  that." 

Janey  said  no  more,  and  we  went  to  bed,  but  I  think  neither  of  us 
got  much  sleep  that  night  The  next  morning  was  Sunday,  such  a 
perfect  summer  Sunday  that  it  seemed  as  if  every  one  must  be 
happy  !  The  birds  were  singing,  the  roses  were  out,  the  soft  tinted 
clouds  were  sailing  across  the  bright  blue  sky ;  the  bells  were  ringing. 
As  I  opened  my  window,  I  saw  father  walking  about  the  garden  with 
his  head  bent  down  drearily.  I  dressed  as  fast  as  I  could,  and  went 
down  to  him. 

He  kissed  me  as  usual,  and  said  he  was  tired.    Would  I  sit  down 

in  the  summer-house  with  him  till  breakfast  was  ready?    We  sat 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  c 

1 8  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 


down,  Janey  kissing  her  hand   to  us  from   the  breakfast-parlour, 
which  she  was  putting  in  order. 

"  Dear  Janey !"  father  said ;  "  never  was  a  more  devoted  child  than 
she."  Then  he  turned  to  me  and  said,  as  if  apologising  for  what 
looked  like  reproach,  "And  you,  Lolo,  have  always  been  good  to 
your  father."  We  clasped  each  other's  hands,  and  were  both  full  of 
thoughts  we  hardly  knew  how  to  utter.  At  last  father  began,  now  in 
a  voice  that  was  heavy  with  tears : 

"You  must  try  henceforth  to  be  as  good  to  your  husband,  my  dear. 
I  don't  ask  more  of  you  " 

"  Oh,  father !  How  can  I  make  amends  for  what  I  have  done  ? 
and  if  I  could,  Harry  would  never  forgive  me." 

"  Lolo,  I  know  it  is  very  hard  to  make  amends  for  wrong  doing ; 
but  amends  must  be  made — first  to  God,  then  to  our  fellow-creatures, 
without  thinking  of  their  forgiveness  towards  ourselves.  Your 
husband  has  indeed  cause  to  be  angry." 

"  But  surely  not  to  be  angry  always,  father  ?  "  I  said,  passionately. 
"What  I  did  was  done  without  thinking;  I  never  meant  to  ruin  him." 

"It  is  no  excuse  for  sin  that  we  rush  into  it,  wilfully  blind  to  the 

"  Oh  !  father,  do  you  call  my  folly  a  sin  ?  " 

"  Folly  is  sin,"  father  went  on,  "  and  the  least  wise  of  us  have 
rules  of  conduct  imprinted  on  our  hearts  by  God  that  we  cannot 
violate  without  knowing  it  But  I  do  not  want  to  chide  you,  Lolo ; 
I  only  want  you  to  see  that  your  husband's  anger  is  justifiable." 

"  How  can  I  soften  it  ?"  I  cried  in  the  same  vehement  tone.  "  He 
does  not  write,  he  does  not  come,  he  gives  me  no  opportunity  of 
telling  him  what  I  feel " 

"Listen,  Lolo,  I  have  thought  of  a  plan  for  bringing  you  two 
together  again.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  London  to- 
morrow morning,  taking  what  money  I  have  with  me.  I  shall  see 
your  husband ;  I  shall  tell  him — shall  I  not  ? — that  you  want  to  go 
back  to  him,  to  share  his  anxieties  and  privations,  and  to  be  hence- 
forth his  good,  true,  helpful  wife." 

Here  Janey  called  us  to  breakfast,  and  nothing  more  was  said 
then  about  the  proposed  journey  till  I  told  her  of  it  on  our  way  to 
church.     She  merely  said  : — 

"  Father  is  sure  to  do  what  is  kind  and  wise." 

Then  we  went  through  the  day's  duties  as  usual,  teaching  the 
catechism  in  the  Sunday  school,  Janey  leading  the  choir,  I  playing 
the  harmonium ;  then  coming  home  to  cold  dinner  afterwards,  and 
quiet  reading  in  the  garden.     On  the  whole  it  was  a  cheerful  day. 

Leaves  from  a  Lost  Diary.  19 

Monday, — My  father  set  off  to  London  early  this  morning,  Janey 
and  I  carrying  his  cloak  and  bag  to  the  station.  He  persisted  in 
travelling  third-class,  nodding  adieu  to  us  quite  cheerfully  from  the 
hot,  dusty,  crowded  carriage.  We  walked  home  without  speaking. 
I  do  not  know,  as  little  could  Janey  guess,  all  that  I  feared.  We  did 
not  say  a  word  about  fathers  errand  throughout  the  day.  And  what 
a  long  day  it  was  !  Our  little  scholars  had  a  holiday,  so  we  had  only 
parish  work  and  the  housekeeping  to  attend  to.  Whilst  Janey  went 
her  rounds  I  ironed  our  muslin  dresses  and  father's  shirts,  and  after 
dinner  she  asked  me  to  play  to  her.  I  flew  joyfully  to  the  old  piano, 
for  music  was  now  my  only  pleasure,  and,  quite  forgetting  poor 
Janey's  favourite  pieces,  practised  some  new  music  till  she  called  me 
to  her.     The  long  afternoon  was  gone  ! 

"  What  extraordinary  music  you  have  been  playing,"  Janey  said, 
good-naturedly,  "  but  I  must  have  my  tunes  after  tea  all  the  same." 
We  had  quite  a  happy  evening,  and  did  not  go  to  bed  till  late.  There 
seemed  so  many  things  to  talk  about  on  that  first  evening  we  had 
been  alone  since  my  marriage.  The  next  morning  I  was  up  and 
dressed  by  six  o'clock,  wondering  how  the  hours  would  pass  till  our 
father's  return  at  midday.  Janey  proposed  that,  as  she  had  a  little 
shopping  to  do  at  Bridgewood,  our  market  town,  we  should  walk 
there  directly  after  breakfast,  and  accompany  father  home  by  rail.  I 
caught  at  the  idea  joyfully,  and  by  eight  o'clock  we  set  off  on  our 
three-mile  walk. 

How  welcome  seemed  the  stir  and  noise  of  even  quiet  little 
Bridgewood  after  the  seclusion  of  the  last  few  weeks  !  But  as  we 
passed  the  gay  shop-windows,  displaying  jewellery,  bonnets,  and 
shawls,  I  turned  suddenly  cold  and  sick,  remembering  that  for  such 
trumpery  as  this  I  had  made  myself,  and  all  dear  to  me,  ashamed 
and  unhappy.  When  we  reached  the  station,  however,  and  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  father's  white  head  in  a  third-class  compartment,  I  ran 
towards  it  with  a  feeling  of  hope. 

We  had  just  time  to  find  seats  when  the  train  moved  off.    The 

carriage  was  crowded,  and  we  were  separated  from  father,  so  that 

talking  was  out  of  the  question ;  and  what  with  the  heat,  noise,  and 

discomfort,  I  almost  forgot  my  suspense.     When  we  got  out  father 

asked  for  a  little  water,  and  we  took  him  into  the  station-master's 

parlour,  as  he  seemed  quite  overcome  with  the  heat.     "lam  afraid 

the  journey  to  London  this  weather  has  been  too  much  for  the  vicar," 

the  good  station-master  said,  anxiously.    "  Had  we  not  better  borrow 

Mr.  Jones's  gig  to  drive  him  to  the  vicarage  ?" 

"  No,  no,  thank  you;  indeed,  I  am  quite  refreshed,"  father  said,  and 

c  2 

20  The  Gentleman 's  Magazine. 

taking  Janey's  arm,  set  out ;  I,  carrying  his  little  bag,  walked  on  the 
other  side.  I  guessed  all  now.  His  mission  must  have  failed,  or  he 
would  have  spoken  at  first. 

When  we  were  safe  out  of  hearing  he  stopped  a  moment,  took 
each  of  us  by  the  hand,  and  said  in  a  trembling  voice,  "  God  bless 
you,  my  children.  I  have  done  my  best,  but  that  has  failed. 
You  must  comfort  each  other." 

We  walked  home  very  sadly.  On  the  threshold  my  father  took 
me  in  his  arms  and  kissed  me,  unable  to  speak.  I  knew  what  he 
wanted  to  say — dear  father  ! 

It  was  a  bitter  day.     I  cannot  bear  to  write  of  it 

Later,  Janey  told  me  that  father  had  seen  Harry,  and  that  he  had 
coldly,  though  courteously,  refused  his  money,  and  also  his  mediations 
on  my  behalf.  What  exactly  took  place  between  the  two  we  never 
knew,  but  I  felt  sure,  from  the  little  my  father  said,  that  Harry  must 
have  behaved  to  him  in  a  proud,  hard  manner.  How  could  I  help 
resenting  such  behaviour?  The  more  I  thought  of  it  the  more  I 
blamed  my  husband,  and  the  less  I  felt  disposed  to  make  any  more 
attempts  at  reconciliation. 

December  1st, 

Weeks  and  months  have  passed,  bringing  nothing  but  trouble. 
That  journey  to  London  made  our  father  very  ill,  and,  though 
he  got  over  it,  he  has  never  been  the  same  since.  Sometimes 
Janey  and  I  fear  that  he  will  have  to  give  up  the  Sunday  duties 
altogether,  in  which  case  we  must  engage  a  curate,  a  great  expense 
to  us.  His  memory  seems  to  be  going  gradually,  and  we  sit  nervously 
through  the  services,  dreading  lest  he  should  make  some  painful 
blunder.  The  poor  people  are  very  good,  and  do  not  grumble  when 
the  sermon  is  omitted,  or  when  Farmer  Jones  reads  the  lessons ; 
but  of  course  this  cannot  go  on  much  longer.  Yesterday  a  child  was 
buried,  and  at  the  last  moment  Janey  had  to  send  off  for  a  neigh- 
bouring clergyman  to  officiate,  the  funeral  having  to  wait  till  he  came. 
To-day  there  is  a  baptism,  and  very  likely  that  will  have  to  be  put  off 
too.  Poor  Janey's  hair  has  grown  grey  with  so  many  anxieties.  And 
I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  ought  to  wish  myself  dead,  being  the  occa- 
sion of  them  all. 

Meantime,  Harry  has  only  written  two  short  letters ;  in  the  first 
he  said  that  he  had  so  far  settled  affairs  as  to  be  able  to  accept  the 
temporary  post  abroad  he  had  before  filled;  and  in  the  second, 
which  came  a  few  months  later,  and  which  was  more  cheerful  in  tone, 
that  he  was  gradually  paying  off  our  debt,  and  hoped  to  be  clear  in 
two  years'  time. 

Leaves  from  a  Lost  Diary.  2 1 

There  was  not  a  word  of  tenderness,  not  a  hope  held  out  to  me  of 
reconciliation ;  and  I  could  only  answer,  him  in  his  own  key.  Of 
what  use  to  humble  myself  a  second  time  in  vain  ? 

We  try  to  make  the  best  of  things,  but  the  prospect  is  dreary. 

December  8/A. 

This  morning,  as  Janey  glanced  over  the  newspaper,  she  let  it  fall 
from  her  hands  with  a  sudden  start.  Harry's  eldest  brother  had  died 
abroad  suddenly,  and  my  husband  was  now  the  head  of  the  house, 
and  the  possessor  of  an  estate.  My  father  and  Janey  were  almost  wild 
with  joy,  seeing  in  this  turn  of  affairs  certain  and  speedy  reconcilia- 
tion between  Harry  and  myself.  His  brother  we  did  not  know,  and 
we  could  but  think  of  ourselves  just  then.  I  shut  myself  up  in  my 
room,  and  tried  to  realise  my  new  position.  It  was  not  all  exultation 
that  I  felt  after  a  little  while. 

I  had  pictured  to  myself  quite  another  kind  of  regeneration  in 
store  for  myself,  and  another  kind  of  forgiveness  from  my  husband, 
and  thought  how  good  it  would  be  to  share  the  burdens  I  had  placed 
upon  his  shoulders :  to  show,  by  every  possible  act  of  forethought  and 
self  denial,  how  entirely  I  had  repented  of  my  folly,  and  how  deter- 
mined I  was  upon  atoning  for  it.  To  be  suddenly  rich,  free  from  the 
necessity  of  sacrifice,  to  have  my  husband  compelled  against  his  will 
to  be  generous.     I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  it 

He  would  fetch  me  to  his  new  home  and  coldly  ignore  all  that  had 
passed ;  he  would  never  reproach  me  either  in  word,  thought,  or  deed. 
He  would  never  let  the  world  know  what  had  divided  us.  Of  this 
much  I  felt  assured.  But  would  he  now  believe  in  the  sincerity  of 
my  penitence  ?  Would  he  credit  without  the  testimony  of  facts  that 
I  was  the  wiser  for  my  sorrow  ?  Yet  to  look  at  the  other  side  of  the 
picture  was  pleasant.  Harry  loved  leisure,  ease,  elegance,  and  I 
could  but  think  that  in  time  we  should  be  happier  for  having  all  these. 
Poverty  had  not  made  us  generous  or  good,  perhaps  prosperity  might 
do  so;  and  if,  in  time  to  come,  Heaven  sent  us  children  to  share  our 
good  fortune,  what  husband  and  wife  need  be  happier  than  we  two  ? 

I  was  roused  from  these  thoughts  by  Janey,  who  wanted  me  to 
help  her  in  making  up  the  Christmas  doles  for  the  poor  people.  She 
seemed  rather  frightened  now  at  the  excess  of  her  own  rejoicing.  "We 
can't  be  quite  sure  how  Harry  may  receive  the  news,"  she  said ;  "  he 
may  still  prefer  not  to  come  to  England  yet  awhile,  and,  after  all,  we 
ought  to  wait  till  we  hear  more."  That  day  passed,  and  the  next,  and 
no  news  came  of  him.  I  listened  breathlessly  at  every  sound  of 
carriage  wheels.     I  made  an  excuse  to  go  to  the  station  whenever  a 

2  2  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

London  train  was  to  come.     I  never  heard  the  garden  gate  click 
without  expecting  him. 

Nothing  has  happened,  as  I  thought.  A  short,  cold  note  came  to- 
day from  my  husband,  saying  that,  under  the  circumstances,  it  is 
better  he  should  fetch  me  as  soon  as  possible,  and  that  he  hopes  to 
be  here  by  Christmas.  This  is  all.  Not  a  word  to  intimate  that  his 
heart  is  softening  towards  me. 

We  were  just  sitting  down  to  our  poor  little  Christmas  dinner, 
decorated  with  holly  in  honour  of  our  single  guest,  the  neighbouring 
curate,  who  has  dined  with  us  since  my  childhood,  when  Harry  arrived. 
As  we  had  heard  nothing  since  that  first  letter,  we  had  not  looked  for 
him,  and  Janey  and  my  father  were  quite  ashamed  of  the  poverty  of 
our  Christmas  fare.  "  We  would,  at  least,  have  had  a  turkey,"  poor 
Janey  said,  trying  to  improve  the  appearance  of  the  table,  whilst 
father  went  to  the  door,  and  received  our  visitor  with  grave  cere- 
moniousness.  I  drew  back  trembling  and  weeping.  He  came  in 
calmly,  kissed  me  on  the  cheek,  shook  hands  cordially  with  the 
others ;  then  we  reseated  ourselves  at  the  dinner-table,  as  if  nothing 
had  happened. 

"It  is  but  poor  fare  we  have  to  offer  you,  sir,"  my  father  said. 
"  Had  you  apprised  us  of  your  coming,  we  should  have  killed  the 
fatted  calf  for  so  welcome  a  guest."  This  formal  speech  put  every- 
thing wrong,  and  poor  Janey,  in  trying  to  improve  matters,  only  made 
them  worse.  We  got  through  the  dreary  little  dinner  as  best  we 
could ;  after  that,  things  mended  a  little.  When  my  father  rose  to  go 
to  his  study,  Harry  seemed  to  notice  for  the  first  time  how  feeble  and 
changed  he  was,  and,  with  a  touched  expression,  gave  him  his  arm. 
The  two  talked  a  little,  then  Harry  came  back  to  me. 

"  Lucy,"  he  said,  "  I  have  told  your  father  that  I  am  sorry  for  ~ 
having  been  hard  upon  you.     Let  us  think  no  more  of  the  past,  but 
make  the  best  we  can  of  the  present." 

He  immediately  began  talking  of  his  plans  for  the  future,  and  said 
that  he  must  return  in  two  days'  time,  as  our  presence  in  London 
was  necessary.  I  tried  again  and  again  to  bring  him  to  talk  of  our- 
selves, but  I  saw  that  he  had  steadfastly  set  his  face  against  anything 
like  an  explanation.  And  as  it  did  not  come  then,  it  is  not  likely  to 
come  at  all.  Ah,  me  !  can  I  show  in  my  life  what  Harry  has  never 
allowed  me  to  express  in  words,  the  remorse  that  makes  me  at  times f 
feel  miserable  in  the  midst  of  our  prosperity  ?  Will  he  ever  know 
how  sorry  I  am  for  the  suffering  I  have  caused  ? 

Leaves  from  a  Lost  Diary.  23 

It  was  very  hard  to  leave  my  father  and  Janey.  They  had  shared  my 
troubles,  but  were  to  have  no  part  in  my  good  fortune.  They  are 
very  proud,  and  though  we  have  urged  them  to  share  of  our  abun- 
dance, they  will  not  do  so.  They  are  too  high-spirited  to  accept 
anything  from  the  man  their  Lucy  has  wronged. 

This  is  another  reason  why  as  yet  I  find  our  new  wealth  rather  a 
dreary  thing.     I  have  always  in  my  mind's  eye  the  picture  of  my 
old  home — Janey  anxiously  trying  to  eke  out  the  scanty  income,  my 
father  growing  feebler  and  feebler  and  wanting  numberless  comforts 
he  cannot  have. 

But  I  cannot  despair  of  things  coming  right  in  time.  My  husband 
and  I  are  trying  our  best  to  do  what  is  right  without  thinking  of  our- 
selves ;  and  every  day  the  task  seems  easier.  His  old  confidence  in 
me  is  gradually  coming  back,  and,  with  that,  will  not  the  old  affection 
come  too  ? 

As  I  have  no  longer  any  secrets  from  him,  I  close  my  diary. 

Offenbach  in  London. 

ACQUES  OFFENBACH,  whatever  be  his  merits  or 
demerits,  must  certainly  be  counted  among  those  who 
have  helped  "  to  increase  the  public  stock  of  harm- 
less pleasure."  Few  have  enjoyed  such  a  universal 
popularity :  and  the  "  Grande  Duchesse, "  with  its  tunes 
and  situations,  was  perhaps  the  best  known  "  thing  "  of 
art  or  politics  in  the  world.  Even  the  most  piquant  and 
sensational  piece  of  news  was  scarcely  known  so  well 
or  travelled  over  such  a  distance.  During  that  strange  season  of 
delusion,  when  emperors  and  sultans  were  crowding  to  Paris,  certain 
of  these  august  personages  were  said  to  have  telegraphed  on  their 
journey  for  a  box  at  the  Varie'te's,  where  Schneider  was  reigning. 
Setting  aside  all  shaking  of  heads  and  sagacious  condemnation  by  the 
professors,  such  enormous  success  deserves  at  least  recognition,  and 
the  world  is  the  author's  debtor  for  thus  "increasing  the  public 
stock  of  pleasure."  Rossini,  introducing  his  last  work  with  an  affected 
modesty,  might  say  that  it  was  neither  "in  the  style  of  Bach  nor 
of  Offen-bach" — hinting  that  the  first  was  highest,  the  last  lowest  in 
the  musical  scale.  Fdtis  in  his  great  critical  work  might  be 
contemptuously  arrogant  in  his  judgment  of  one  he  considered  a  mere 
musical  scribbler.  But  still  the  man  who  could  address  all  countries 
in  the  one  tongue  and  find  it  exquisitely  relished,  and  who  has 
contrived  hours  of  airy  enjoyment  for  the  world,  is  not  to  be  so  lightly 

The  Offenbachian  opera  represents  a  distinct  department  of 
human  enjoyment,  and  is  a  development  of  a  particular  form  of 
social  "fun."  An  observer  is  present  at  a  party  where  are  wits  and 
savants  deeply  skilled  in  knowledge  of  human  experience  and 
human  nature,  and  where  character  is  made  under  this  treatment  to 
exhibit  itself  in  a  natural  and  genuine  fashion.  There  he  finds  a 
display  of  comedy.  In  another  set  he  hears  droll  remarks,  wild, 
spontaneous  wit,  strange  stories  and  incidents,  which  make  him  roar, 
-  and  is  entertained  with  farce.  But  there  is  a  third  and  rarer  kind  of 
merry  meeting,  where  the  performers,  in  boisterous  spirits,  become 
extravagant — can  be  content  with  nothing  but  the  most  far-fetched 
and  grotesque  conceits.     Their  most  effective  subjects  are  of  the 

Offenbach  in  London.  25 

gravest  and  most  solemn  kind,  whose  gravity  and  solemnity  are  found 
tedious  and  oppressive  uf  the  ordinary  course  of  things.  Their  aim, 
then,  is  not  merely  to  bring  down  to  a  natural  level,  but  to  set  such 
things  as  much  below  that  level  as  they  were  once  above  it :  and  the 
sudden  degradation  produces  a  most  ridiculous  effect  Such  is 
the  aim  of  masqued  ball  costumers,  where  ridiculous  noses  and 
distorted  uniforms  express  the  intention  in  a  coarse  way.  Such  is 
the  meaning  of  those  mock  official  ceremonies  on  "  crossing  the  line," 
on  the  admission  of  new  hands  in  the  old  prisons,  and  other  such 
rites.  There  is  no  logic,  no  coherence ;  boisterous  spirits  and  gaiety 
are  the  chief  essentials.  This  in  a  rude  way  is  the  foundation  of  the 
opera  bouflfe ;  and  Offenbach,  though  supposed  to  be  confined  to 
his  musical  illustration,  must  be  a  burlesque  humourist  of  a  high 
order.  This  is  shown  by  the  class  of  writers  he  has  called  into 
existence  to  supply  him  with  stories,  and  who  felt  that  in  him  they 
had  found  an  exact  interpreter.  This,  too,  is  evident  in  his  face, 
which  has  a  roguish,  naive,  and  even  a  Voltairean  expression — a 
union  of  grave  finesse  and  quaintness,  with  the  farceur  in  ambuscade. 
The  double  eyeglass  suggests  a  mock  professional  air. 

His  career  suggests  advancement  through  address.  He  was  „ 
born  at  Cologne,  and  is  but  fifty  years  old.  He  came  to  Paris  in 
1842  as  a  violoncello  player,  and  though  he  failed  in  that  department, 
succeeded  in  becoming  leader  of  the  orchestra  at  the  Thditre 
Francais  in  five  years.  It  was  not  long  before  his  taste  for  the 
peculiar  line  of  composition  in  which  he  was  to  become  famous  was 
developed.  His  first  efforts  were  the  setting  of  some  fables  of 
La  Fontaine  —  which,  if  not  very  deep,  were  at  least  gay  and 
sparkling.  The  very  choice  of  such  a  subject  shows  a  true  relish  for 
comedy,  and  the  famous  fables,  if  married  to  suitable  music,  would 
become  at  once  a  sort  of  opera  bouflfe.  This  taste  developed  yet 
more  and  more,  and  in  1855  he  opened  the  little  theatre  which 
is  at  the  end  of  the  Passage  Choiseul,  and  which  he  and  his 
works  have  made  famous  as  the  "  Bouflfes  Parisiens."  The  notion 
was  clearly  suggested  by  the  style  of  music — not  the  music  by 
the  notion.  A  comic  story  had  often  been  set  to  music;  but  in  the 
opera  bouflfe  it  wore  a  humorous  tone  of  mind  —  an  exaggerated 
burlesque  that  was  expressed  in  music  Again,  the  musical  ex- 
pression aimed  at  giving  the  tone  of  a  situation,  not  of  a  narrative. 
An  example  of  this  could  be  given  in  "  Les  Deux  Aveugles,"  one  of 
the  earliest  of  his  attempts,  and  lately  presented  at  the  Gaiety.  Two 
blind  men  meet  on  a  bridge  to  beg.  Both  being  impostors,  and  each 
believing  that  the  other  is  really  afflicted,  a  most  absurd  situation 

26  The  Gentleman 's  Magazine. 

arises,  worked  up  after  the  Box  and  Cox  fashion.  Each  has  his 
musical  instrument — one  a  trombone,  the  other  a  fiddle  or  guitar ; 
and  the  characteristics  of  such  rude  music  under  such  conditions  are 
translated  into  real  music  with  great  art.  In  short,  the  "  fun  "  flows 
from  the  situation  as  logically  as  a  conclusion  follows  the  premises. 
Having  once  struck  the  vein,  the  stream  of  his  pieces  began  to  flow 
in  a  full  and  rapid  current.  Here  is  a  tolerably  complete  list  repre- 
senting the  work  of  seventeen  years  : — "  Les  Deux  Aveugles,"  "  Une 
Nuit  Blanche,"  "  Bataclan,"  "Le  Violoncelliste,"  for  the  year  1855  ; 
"Trombalcazar,"  "Le  Postilion  en  Cage,"  "La  Rose  de  Saint  Flour," 
"  Le  Financier  et  le  Savetier,"  "  La  Bonne  d'Enfant,"  in  1856  ;  and 
"  Crochefer"  in  1857.  In  1861  came  "  Orphe'e  aux  Enfers,"  his  first 
important  work,  which  took  the  town  by  storm,  and,  after  being  per- 
formed three  hundred  times,  went  the  round  of  civilised  Europe. 
In  the  same  year  was  given  "  Les  Trois  Baisers  du  Diable," 
"  L'Apothicaire  et  le  Perruquier,"  and  "  Le  Roman  Comique ; "  in 
1862  "Monsieur  et  Madame  Denis,"  and  in  1864-5,  "La  Belle 
Helene,"  another  European  success.  In  1866  followed  "LaBarbe 
Bleue;"  in  18C7,  "La  Grande  Duchesse,"  the  most  famous  of  his 
works;  in  1868,  "La  Penchole,"  "LTle  de  Tulipatan,"  and 
"  Genevieve  de  Brabant."  In  1869  came  "  Les  Brigands  "  and  "  La 
Princesse  de  Trel>izonde."  The  disastrous  war  of  1870  was  not 
favourable  to  the  enjoyment  of  opera  bouffe,  but  he  resumed  work 
in  187 1  with  "Fortunatus"  and  nearly  half  a  dozen  other  pieces, 
besides  supplying  music  to  Sardou's  "  Le  Roi  Carotte."  It  would  be 
difficult  to  enumerate  all  his  minor  trifles,  such  as  "  Le  Manage  aux 
Lanternes  "  and  others ;  but  there  remains  the  extraordinary  feat  of  his 
having  scored  at  least  six  great  triumphs  in  succession,  commencing 
with  the  "  Belle  Helene."  It  is  a  great  proof  of  the  theory  that  good 
pieces  supply  good  actors,  that  all  his  "  hits  "  have  been  inspired  by 
perfect  successes  in  the  way  of  humorous  subjects.  Where  he  has 
found  "weak-kneed"  pieces  the  music  has  not  "walked,"  and  has 
proved  "  weak-kneed  "  itself. 

"La  Belle  Helene"  is  perhaps  the  freshest  and  most  truly  humorous 
of  all  his  works,  and  the  book  itself  is  conceived  in  the  genuine  spirit 
of  legitimate  burlesque,  for  it  does  not  assume  that  these  Greek 
characters  were  so  remote  and  unfamiliar  to  us  that  the  only  method 
of  presenting  them  would  be  under  the  most  grotesque  and  impossible 
conditions  of  dress  and  behaviour.  The  true  and  natural  method 
would  be  to  assume  that  they  were  men  and  women  like  those  of  the 
present  time,  and  fit  to  be  ridiculed  as  our  contemporaries  could  be 
ridiculed.     The  result  was  an  interest  and  a  far  more  racy  description 

Offenbach  in  London.  2  7 

of  "fun,"  while  the  earnestness  of  treatment  was  strengthened  by 
snatches  of  sweet  and  taking  music,  which  gave  a  dignity  and  growth  to 
the  whole.  We  say  nothing  of  the  improprieties  for  which  so  many 
of  the  OfTenbachian  pieces  are  remarkable,  because  these  may  be 
often  looked  on  as  vulgar  excrescences.  There  is  never  anything 
humorous  in  allusions  or  situations  of  this  kind,  as  it  appears  to  us. 
Even  some  of  the  great  French  pieces,  such  as  "  Nos  Intimes,"  seem 
to  be  positively  injured  in  an  artistic  sense  by  this  introduction. 
Sterne  can  always  be  pointed  to  as  a  special  warning,  for  he  has  lost 
two-thirds  of  his  audience  by  going  out  of  his  way  to  tickle  this  vulgar 

To  look  at  a  score  of  Offenbach's  music  is  like  looking  at  a  stage 
by  daylight.  Nothing  more  meagre  or  poorer  can  be  conceived  than 
some  of  those  "  galloping  "  choruses  which  were  once  the  rage.  It  is 
like  a  bottle  of  champagne ;  once  the  cork  has  been  taken  out,  no  art 
can  bring  back  the  sparkle  and  effervescence.  This  music  will  be  a 
mere  caput  mortuutn  when  the  school  that  grew  up  and  developed  with 
it  has  passed  away  and  the  fashion  has  gone  out.  The  vivacity  and 
the  roystering  style  necessary  for  its  interpretation  cannot  be  conjured 
up  at  will,  or  be  "  got  up  "  like  ordinary  stage  "  business."  The 
music  belonged  to  an  era — to  the  days  of  the  Empire — when  "  high 
jinks  "  reigned  at  Court,  and  when  a  notorious  dance  called  the  Can- 
can symbolised  a  great  deal  The  Offenbachian  opera  was  but  the 
spirit  of  the  Cancan  refined.  The  serious  music  may  have  a  longer 
lease  of  popularity,  but  the  relish  of  this  class  of  entertainment  is 
founded  in  the  tone  of  manners  of  the  time,  and  when  these  actors 
have  passed  away,  and  with  them  the  inspiration,  will  be  as  hard  to 
recall  to  life  as  to  revive  an  old  and  popular  burlesque.  Already  the 
"  tunes"  in  "  La  Grande  Duchesse  "  sound  flat,  and  when  Madame 
Schneider  shall  have  gone  herself  only  Mrs.  Howard  Paul  will  be  found 
tolerable  in  the  part.  And  it  must  be  said  the  popularity  of  Madame 
Schneider,  in  spite  of  the  coarseness  and  something  worse  which  dis- 
tinguishes her  performance,  deserves  the  praise  of  being  highly  artistic 
and  dramatic.  In  its  way  her  Duchesse,  her  country  girl  in  the 
"  Barbe  Bleue,"  and  her  vagabond  singer  in  the  "  Pdrichole,"  have  a 
certain  finish,  a  dramatic  character,  and  give  the  highest  entertainment. 
It  is  when  these  characters  fall  into  the  hands  of  English  players  that 
we  see  the  contrast,  and  that  they  become  ponderous  and  unmeaning. 
"  La  Pdrichole,"  with  Dupuis  to  assist,  was  a  most  charming  and 
entertaining  performance.  Even  one  single  little  street  ballad,  "  Le 
Conque'rant,"  was  simply  perfect  in  its  dramatic  propriety  and  spirit, 
and  the  fashion  in  which  it  was  interpreted  by  both.     But  in  this 

28  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

piece  again  he  was  assisted  by  the  genuine  humour  of  the  authors  of 
the  story.     All  the  Offenbachian  stories  are  delightful  and  full  of  a 
droll  humour.     What  could  be  more  funny  than  that  of  the  Princess 
of  Trebizonde?    A  strolling  party  of  tumblers  and  mountebanks, 
who  are  seen  in  their  booth,  with  their  drum,  spangles,  &c,  suddenly 
come  into  a  fortune,  and  their  behaviour  under  the  new  conditions — 
the  head  of  the  family  not  being  able  to  resist  the  temptation  of 
spinning  a  plate  on  a  stick  at  dinner — is  in  itself,  as  a  mere  picture 
and  without  narrative  a  droll  basis  for  a  story.     We  know  what  the 
regulation  treatment  of  a  burlesque  on  "  Blue  Beard "  would  be  in 
our  country — a  roaring,  grotesque  figure,  with  a  false  nose,  ordering 
his  wives  to  be  decapitated  one   after  the  other.      It  showed  a 
somewhat  higher  order  of  humour  to  exhibit  him  as  a  plaintive  and 
almost  aesthetic  creature,  the  victim  of  the  tender  passion,  but  in- 
constant— getting  rid  of  the  successive  ladies  because  they  did  not 
answer  his  high  ideal.     So  with  "  Boule  de  Neige,"  one  of  his  latest 
productions,  where,  in  some  impossible  kingdom,  the  Oracle,  or  some 
other  power,  has  declared  that  a  bear  was  to  ascend  the  throne,  and 
certain  adventurers  contrive  to  make  the  bear  the  organ  of  all  their 
schemes.     This  would  be  the  humorous  way  of  looking  at  such  a 
subject ;  but  our  native  workmen,  who  present  similar  things  on  the 
stage,  g°  to  work  after  a  fashion  of  their  own  which  is  utterly  mean- 
ingless.    Lately  a  burlesque  of  Coleridge's  "  Christabel "  was  given 
at  a  London  theatre.     All  the  reading  world  knows  what  the  original 
poem  is — how  mystical,  romantic,  graceful,  but  unintelligible ;  above 
all,  how  comparatively  unpopular  and  little  known  it  is  to  the  vulgar. 
There  is  no  story,  and  it  is  more  a  dream  than  a  narrative.     Yet  it  is 
chosen  for  a  burlesque,  the  average  audience  of  the  place  not  know- 
ing what  is  burlesqued.     The  result  is  something  perfectly  incoherent 
and  unintelligible.     There  are  foresters  in  green,  a  baron  and  his 
daughter,  an  inconsequential  "  Bracey  the  Bard,"  and  a  couple  of 
ladies — one  in  white,  the  other  in  gold.     These  figures  are,  as  it  were, 
labelled  and  shuffled  together,  but  what  they  do  or  what  they  mean  in 
their  relations  with  one  another  no  one  can  understand.     Each,  how- 
ever, has  a  song  and  dance,  buffoons  to  the  best  of  his  or  her  ability, 
independent  of  one  another  or  of  the  story ;  and  such  is  all  that  is 
claimed  by  English  burlesque.     This  has  grown  up  into  a  system  ;  it 
has  its  traditions  and  conventional  style,  and  anything  more  coherent 
would  be  rejected  by  the  actors  as  not  supplying  "  business." 

The  adoption  by  the  English  public  of  Offenbachian  opera 
bouffe  has  been  remarkably  slow ;  but  the  truth  is,  it  was  never 
presented  under  fair  conditions  until  last  year.     The  tunes  arc 

Offenbach  in  London.  29 


familiar,  and  have  been  twisted  and  tangled  into  quadrilles  and  waltzes 
— have  been  "  ground  "  on  the  organs,  and  sung  and  whistled  in  the 
streets  :  the  plays  themselves  have  been  subjected  to  the  hewing  and 
hacking  process  of  adaptation — prepared  for   the   English   market 
much  as  foreign  wines  are.    We  know  the  "Grand  Duchess,"  "  Blue 
Beard,"  "Princess  of  Trebizonde, "  and  others  :  and  it  is  the  greatest 
proof  of   their  merit  that   in  this   maimed  condition — after  being 
mangled  and  racked  both  in  the  adapter's  cabinet  and  on  the  stage 
by  the  actors — their    power  and  meaning  should    have  been  so 
thoroughly  appreciated.  The  "  Grand  Duchess  "  was  the  first  that  was 
introduced ;  but  it  was  brought  on  at  Covent  Garden  as  a  pompous 
spectacle,   and  was   dealt   with  as  a  grand   opera.     It  might  have 
been  the  Russian  army  in   "L'Etoile  du   Nord"  that  was  under 
review,  instead  of  the  dwindled  band  that  makes  up  the  force  of  a 
tiny  Grand  Duchy.     The  canvas  was  too  large,  and  the  actors  had 
no  more  notion  than  the  clown  and  pantaloon  of  the  pantomime 
that  was  so  handsomely  mounted  the  following  Christmas  of  dealing 
with  the  grotesque  satire  of  the  piece.     The  Gaiety  Theatre  then  fol- 
lowed up  this  introduction,  and  steadily  relied  on  Offenbach  for  its 
chief  dainties.     But  the  humour  of  Mr.  Toole  and  Mr.  Stoyle  is  too 
realistic  to  suit  this  class  of  entertainment     The  English  "comique" 
must  have  everything  distinctly  set  down  for  him — everything  must  be 
"  business,"  and  capable  of  interpretation  by  his  stock-in-trade  of  arts 
and  devices.    That  sentence  can  be  given  with  a  favourite  droll  into- 
nation or  grimace — that  situation  can  be  illustrated  by  comic  gestures. 
But  that  impalpable,  indescribable  finesse — that  underlying  humour 
which  is  akin  to  the  sly  seriousness  which  looked  out  of  the  eyes  of 
Talleyrand  when  he  uttered  his  serious  witticisms — that  is  an  unknown 
art    Miss  Constance  Loseby  and  Miss  Tremaine  have  no  pretensions 
to  humour  of  any  kind,  and  fill  their  parts  with  a  gravity  that  is  in 
itself  amusing,  or  with  an  enforced  vivacity  that  might  be  called  "lum- 
bering."    In  such  hands  Offenbach  at  the  Gaiety,  though  splendidly 
mounted  and  even  spiritedly  carried  through,  became  an  entertainment 
of  a  different  kind,  though  highly  amusing  and  popular:  a  mixture  of 
good  singing,  particularly  good  orchestra — who  does  not  approve  Herr 
Meyer  Lutz  ? — splendid  scenery,  and  spectacle.  It  thus  fulfilled  the  aims 
of  the  management    As  for  those  poverty-stricken  attempts,  "  Falsa- 
cappa  "  at  the  Globe,  and  the  "  Vie  Parisienne  "  at  the  Holborn — 
they  do  not  deserve  serious  notice.     But  any  one  who  wished  to  see 
the  nearest  approach  that  has  been  made  in  English  to  the  French 
style  of  presenting  this  style  of  humour  should   have  been  at  the 
Gaiety    Theatre    during    one    of   the    Saturday  afternoons   when 

30  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  Genevieve  de  Brabant "  was  transported  bodily,  singers,  orchestra, 
dresses,  and  decorations,  from  the  Philharmonic  Theatre,  hard  by 
the  New  River  at  Islington.  A  brighter,  more  spirited,  and  more 
entertaining  performance  has  not  been  seen  in  London  for  many  a 
day.  Much  of  this  perfection  is  of  course  owing  to  the  piece  itself, 
and  to  the  music — both  of  which  are  supremely  good,  and  fitted  to 
each  other  in  the  true  spirit.  But  much,  too,  is  owing  to  the  fact 
that  the  actors  and  directors  of  the  "business"  have  worked 
seriously — or  rather  earnestly — although  they  had  to  take  a  part  in 
a  series  of  coherent  events.  To  this  understanding  fairly  adhered  to 
may  be  traced  the  stupendous  success  of  the  piece.  The  result  is, 
firstly,  the  audience  is  interested  in  the  story,  and  is  pleased  at 
following  it ;  secondly,  it  is  not  affronted  by  acts  of  "  tomfoolery/' 
akin  to  the  sort  of  amusement  we  furnish  a  child  by  making 
"rabbits  on  the  wall,"  paper  cocked  hats,  and  the  like;  thirdly, 
there  is  no  undue  exhibition  of  particular  actors  in  the  direction 
of  dresses  and  "  make  up  "  as  absurd  as  what  is  seen  in  the  street  on 
the  First  of  May — no  personal  exhibition  of  prowess  in  dancing  or 
tumbling ;  while  fourthly,  the  humour  and  absurdity  is  of  a  natural 
kind,  arising  out  of  the  view  people  of  a  different  age  and  country, 
such  as  the  audience  belonged  to,  would  take  of  the  manners  and 
customs  of  another  age. 

The  story  alone  of  "  Genevieve  de  Brabant,"  or  "  Jennyveeve  "  as 
she  was  often  called  at  the  Philharmonic,  is  excellently  treated.  Its 
outline  is  familiar — the  heir  to  the  throne  wanted,  the  fascinating 
cook,  and  the  departure  for  the  Crusades.  There  is  a  grandeur 
and  simplicity  in  these  broader  features — the  seriousness  in  the 
Crusaders,  the  pomp  of  their  marching  forth,  the  background  of  the 
mediaeval  town,  and  the  genuineness  of  the  love  of  the  cook  for  his 
mistress,  illustrated  by  sweet  and  charming  music — these  add  an 
unexpected  force  and  burlesque  to  the  professedly  comic  portions. 
It  may  be  doubted,  too,  if  there  is  any  modern  piece  so  full  of 
original  and  funny  devices.  The  charming  "Cup  of  Tea"  song, 
with  its  tinkling  accompaniment  of  spoons  on  the  cups  (which, 
by  the  way,  is  a  deviation  from  the  original),  the  arming  of  the 
Duke  and  the  "  practicable  "  door  in  his  helmet,  the  repair  of  the 
armour,  the  droll  gensd'armes  and  their  remarkable  song,  which,  as  a 
mere  tune,  is  a  masterpiece  for  its  suitability  in  character  and  humour 
to  the  persons  and  the  situation,  to  say  nothing  of  the  burgomaster 
and  his  speech — the  whole  is  a  most  agreeable  and  enlivening 
entertainment  that  sends  every  one  away  in  good  spirits  and  good 
humour,  and  furnishes  him  for  a  week  after  with  cheerful  thoughts 

Offenbach  in  London.  3 1 

and  cheerful  tunes  and  a  restless  desire  to  send  other  persons  to  see 
it,  or  to  go  oneself  and  bring  others.  Too  much  praise  cannot  be 
given  to  the  chief  actors  concerned  for  their  admirable  self-restraint 
and  for  not  "  o'erstepping  the  modesty  of  Nature,"  or  at  least  of 
natural  humour. 

Allusion  has  been  made  to  "  La  Vie  Parisienne  in  London,"  which 
is  really  a  wholesome  specimen  of  the  rough  carpentry  known  as 
adaptation.  The  story  turned  on  the  mystification  (or  properly, 
"  humbugging  ")  of  a  foreigner  who  has  arrived  in  the  great  capital, 
and  in  the  English  version  this  is  twisted  into  a  pantomimic  figure 
with  long  coat-tails  streaming  behind  him,  while  every  one  engaged 
is  dressed  after  some  outrageous  pattern.  The  piece  is  so  full  of 
boisterous  "  fun"  that  with  good  acting  it  would  have  gone  safely 
through ;  but  the  result  has  been  the  limiting  of  the  fun.  Mr. 
Brough  in  the  Baron  did  wonders,  contributing  the  whole  stock  of 
all  his  various  arts  and  devices,  which  are  abundant.  Still  a  word  of 
remonstrance  might  be  offered  to  this  sterling  and  excellent  actor, 
whose  Tony  Lumpkin  and  sottish  uncle  in  "  Dearer  than  Life"  will 
not  be  soon  forgotten.  Such  aids  to  diversion  as  rolling  in  the 
dust  of  the  stage,  tumbling  head  over  heels,  belong  to  an  inferior 
walk  altogether,  and  no  one  likes  to  see  one  of  his  dramatic  favourites 
encroaching  on  the  department  of  pantomime. 

On  the  whole  it  may  be  said  that  Offenbach  has  the  proud  distinc- 
tion of  contributing  more  than  any  man  of  his  time  to  the  diversion 
of  the  world.  It  is  to  be  lamented  that,  like  so  many  other  men  of 
power,  he  should  now  have  begun  to  think  that  his  genius  lies  in 
another  direction.  Mr.  Ruskin,  after  delighting  the  public  with  his 
speculations  on  art,  has  now  taken  it  into  his  head  that  he  is  a  social  re- 
generator, and  talks  notoriously  weak  platitudes  on  political  economy. 
Liston  fancied  that  after  all  tragedy  was  his  line.  Mr.  Gladstone 
has  believed  that  he  was  meant  to  enlighten  the  world  on  Homer, 
though  perhaps  now  his  delusion  may  not  be  so  strong.  Offenbach 
seems  to  have  begun  to  believe  that  romantic  opera  is  his  forte, 
though  any  attempts  he  may  have  made  have  failed  disastrously.  Let 
us  hope  that  he  will  come  back  to  where  his  strength  is  really  to  be 
found.  We  will  be  bold  enough  even  to  suggest  a  subject  of  genuine 
humour — namely,  the  first  of  Alexandre  Dumas'  pieces — "  La  Noce  et 
'Enterrement " — which  long  ago  found  its  way  to  our  stage  as  "  The 
Illustrious  Stranger." 

The  Republican  Impeachment 

N  the  November  issue  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  my 
pamphlet,  "  The  Impeachment  of  the  House  of  Brunswick," 
is  the  subject  of  a  special  criticism  by  Mr.  John  Baker 
Hopkins.  Some  of  the  points  raised  in  the  article,  in  reply 
to  my  pamphlet,  seem  to  require  answer  and  explanation  at  my 
hands,  and  I  therefore  gladly  avail  myself  of  the  permission  so 
generously  accorded  me  to  partially  justify  myself  to  the  readers  of 
this  magazine.  I  say  "  partially  justify  myself,"  because  a  complete 
and  thorough  justification  would  involve  greater  indulgence  of  space 
than  I  have  any  right  to  ask. 

Mr.  Hopkins  contends  that  no  law  can  be  made  without  the 
Sovereign,  that  Parliament  cannot  "prevent  the  succession  of  the 
lawful  heir  to  the  throne ; "  that  Parliament  has  no  power  to  subvert 
the  constitution,  and  that,  according  to  the  constitution,  the  throne 
is  hereditary.  I  submit  that  in  this  country  there  is  no  other  consti- 
tution than  the  law;  that  every  Act  of  Parliament  in  its  enactment 
becomes  part  and  parcel  of  the  constitution.  In  America  there  is  a 
written  constitution,  and  an  Act  of  Congress  may  not  only  be  uncon- 
stitutional, but  the  judges  may  disregard  it  as  unconstitutional.  In 
Great  Britain  there  is  no  written  constitution ;  the  constitution  is  the 
will  of  the  nation,  as  expressed  from  day  to  day  through  the  repre- 
sentatives in  Parliament.  However  absurd  any  statute  may  be  the 
English  judges  are  bound  to  enforce  it.  Each  statute  as  it  is  passed 
modifies  the  common  and  statute  law  in  force  prior  to  its  enactment. 
That  the  British  Parliament  can  prevent  the  succession  of  the  "  lawful 
heir  to  the  throne  "  is  certain.  It  has  done  so  repeatedly.  The  last 
instance  was  on  the  28th  January,  1688,  when  it  declared  the  throne 
vacant,  thus  excluding  the  then  feigning  monarch,  James  II.,  and 
entirely  ignoring  his  son,  the  Prince  of  Wales.  If  Parliament  has  and 
had  no  right  to  exclude  or  prevent  the  succession  of  a  "  lawful  heir," 
then  the  members  of  the  present  House  of  Brunswick  are  illegally  on 
the  throne — in  fact,  usurpers.  I  contend  that  they  are  lawfully  on  the 
throne,  and  may  be  as  lawfully  ejected  from  it.  I  deny  that  by  law 
or  practice  the  throne  of  this  country  is  hereditary,  except  so  far  as 
created  by  Parliament.  To  quote  the  language  of  the  Marquis  of 
Lansdowne,  used  in  the  House  of  Lords  on  the  26th   December, 

The  Republican  Impeachment.  33 

»  * 

1788: — "One  of  the  best  constitutional  writers  we  have  had  was 
Mr.  Justice  Foster,  who  in  his  book  on  the  '  Principles  of  the  Con- 
stitution/ denies  the  right  even  of  hereditary  succession,  and  says  it 
is  no  right  whatsoever,  but  a  mere  political  expedient.  The  crown, 
Mr.  Justice  Foster  said,  was  not  a  mere  descendible  property,  like  a 
laystall,  or  a  pigsty ;  but  was  put  in  trust  for  millions,  and  for  the 
happiness  of  ages  yet  unborn,  which  Parliament  has  it  always  in  its 
power  to  mould,  to  shape,  to  alter,  and  to  fashion  just  as  it  shall  think 
proper.  And  in  speaking  of  Parliament,  Mr.  Justice  Foster,"  his  lord- 
ship said,  "  repeatedly  spoke  of  the  two  Houses  of.  Parliament  only ; " 
and  Lord  Loughborough  following  in  the  same  debate  was  compelled 
"  to  admit  that  a  right  to  hereditary  succession  to  the  throne  was  not 
an  original  vested  right  that  belonged,  in  the  first  instance,  to  one 
of  a  family,  and  was  descendible  to  the  heirs."  It  is  true  that  Lord 
Loughborough  contended  that  the  crown  had  been  "made  hereditary," 
but  this  could  only  be  by  the  act  of  Parliament,  and  I  submit  that 
the  power  to  repeal  is  as  complete  as  the  authority  to  enact ;  that 
whatever  Parliament  can  give,  Parliament  is  competent  to  take  away. 
The  Earl  of  Abingdon  on  the  same  day,  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
discussing  the  cases  of  disability  provided  for  in  the  Act  of  Settlement, 
said  :  "  Will  a  king  exclude  himself?  No !  no  !  my  lords,  that 
exclusion  appertains  to  us  and  to  the  other  House  of  Parliament 
exclusively.  It  is  to  us  it  belongs— -it  is  our  duty.  It  is  the  business 
of  the  Lords  and  Commons  of  Great  Britain,  and  of  us  alone,  as  the 
trustees  and  representatives  of  the  nation."  And  again,  the  same 
lord  declared  that  "  The  right  to  new  model  or  alter  the  succession 
vests  in  the  Parliament  of  England,  without  the  King,  in  the  Lords  and 
Commons  of  Great  Britain  solely  and  exclusively."  On"  the  22nd 
December,  1788,  the  Right  Hon.  William  Pitt,  then  Prime  Minister, 
said  that  "It  had  been  argued  that,  according  to  the  Act  13  Charles  II. 
the  two  Houses  of  Parliament  cannot  proceed  to  legislate  without  a 
king ;  the  conduct  of  the  Revolution  had  contradicted  that  assertion ; 
they  had  acted  legislatively,  and  no  king  being  present,  they  conse- 
quently must  have  acted  without  a  king."  Mr.  Hardinge,  a  lawyer  of 
the  highest  repute,  afterwards  Solicitor-General,  said  in  the  same 
debate  that  "  The  virtue  of  our  ancestors,  and  the  genius  of  the 
Government,  accurately  understood,  a  century  ago,  had  prompted  the 
Lords  and  Commons  of  the  realm  to  pass  a  law  without  a  king ;  and 
a  law  which,  as  he  had  always  read  it,  had  put  upon  record  this 
principle:  "that  whenever  the  supreme  executive  hand  shall  have 
lost  its  power  to  act,  the  people  of  the  land,  fully  and  freely  repre- 
sented, can  alone  repair  the  defect."  In  the  same  debate  Mr.  Pitt 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  u 

34  The. Gentleman's  Magazine. 

reminded  the  House  that  "  Mr.  Somers  and  other  great  men  declared 
that  no  person  had  a  right  to  the  throne  independent  of  the  consent 
of  the  two  Houses."  Mr.  Macdonald,  the  then  Attorney-General, 
said  in  the  House,  on  the  same  evening,  that  "  The  powers  of  the 
Government  must  be  derived  from  the  community  at  large."  The 
Prince  of  Wales,  afterwards  George  IV.,  in  writing,  conceded  all  that 
I  contend  for,  by  admitting  "That  the  powers  and  prerogatives  of  the 
crown  are  vested  there  as  a  trust  for  the  benefit  of  the  people,"  and 
by  saying  "that  the  plea  of  public  utility  ought  to  ,be  strong, 
manifest,  and  urgent,  which  calls  for  the  extinction  or  suspension  of 
any  of  those  essential  rights  in  the  supreme  power  or  its  repre- 
sentative." I  contend  that  there  is  strong,  manifest,  and  urgent 
ground  for  the  extinction  or  suspension  of  the  trusteeship  at  present 
permitted  in  the  House  of  Brunswick.  The  Honourable  Temple 
Luttrell,  in  a  speech  made  in  the  House  of  Commons  on  the  7th 
November,  1775,  showed  that  "Of  thirty-three  Sovereigns  since 
William  the  Conqueror,  thirteen  only  have  ascended  the  throne 
by  divine  hereditary  right  ....  The  will  of  the  people," 
he  said,  "superseding  any  hereditary  claim  to  succession,  at 
the  commencement  of  the  twelfth  century  placed  Henry  I.  on 
the  throne,"  and  this  subject  to  conditions  as  to  laws  to  be  made 
by  Henry.  King  John  was  compelled  "solemnly  to  register 
an  assurance  of  the  ancient  rights  of  the  people  in  a  formal  manner ; 
and  this  necessary  work  was  accomplished  by  the  Congress  at  Runny- 
mede,  in  the  year  11 15  .  .  .  Sir,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  III.  (about 
the  year  1223),  thg  barons,  clergy,  and  freeholders,  understanding 
that  the  King,  as  Earl  of  Poictou,  had  landed  some  of  his  continental 
troops  in  the  western  parts  of  England,  with  a  design  to  strengthen 
a  most  odious  and  arbitrary  set  of  Ministers,  they  assembled  in  a 
Convention  or  Congress,  from  whence  they  despatched  deputies  to 
King  Henry,  declaring  that  if  he  did  not  immediately  send  back 
those  Poictouvians,  and  remove  from  his  person  and  councils  evil 
advisers,  they  would  place  upon  the  throne  a  prince  who  should 
better  observe  the  laws  of  the  land.  Sir,  the  King  not  only  harkened 
to  that  Congress,  but  shortly  after  complied  with  every  article  of  their 
demand,  and  publicly  notified  his  reformation.  Now,  sir,  what  are 
we  to  call  that  assembly  which  dethroned  Edward  II.  when  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  preached  a  sermon  on  the  text,  '  Hie  voice 
of  the  people  is  the  voice  of  GodP  ...  A  Prince  of  the  House  of  Lan- 
caster was  invited  over  from  banishment,  and  elected  by  the  people 
to  the  throne,  on  the  fall  of  Richard  II.  I  shall  next  proceed  to 
the  general  Convention  and  Congress,  which  in  146 1  enthroned  the 

The  Republican  Impeachment.  35 

Earl  of  March  by  the  name  of  Edward  IV.,  the  Primate  of  all 
England  collecting  the  suffrages  of  the  people  .  .  .  In  1659  a  Con- 
vention or  Congress  restored  legal  monarchy  in  the  person  of 
Charles  II." 

Many  more  authorities  might  be  collected  if  your  space  permitted, 
but  at  least  I  have  done  something  to  show  that  my  opinions  are  not 
so  wildly  absurd  as  Mr.  Hopkins  pretends.  Mr.  Hopkins  alleges 
that  "many  of  the  scandalous  stories"  contained  in  my  impeach- 
ment pamphlet  "are  false."  I  am  unaware  that  any  are  false.  I 
believe  the  whole  to  be  true,  and  have  taken  pains  to  be  accurate. 
As  no  instances  of  the  alleged  untruth  are  offered,  it  is  only  possible 
to  make  this  general  reply.  Mr.  Hopkins  is  mistaken  in  supposing 
that  "kings  and  princes"  of  the  House  of  Brunswick  "cannot  notice 
the  wicked  stories  about  them."  They  have,  over  and  over  again, 
denied  and  prosecuted,  since  17 14,  accusations  varying  from  false- 
hood to  a  crime  so  black  that  the  pen  hesitates  to  record  it.  They 
have  even  prosecuted  Leigh  Hunt  for  describing  a  Brunswick  as  "  a 
fat  Adonis  of  fifty."  Scores  of  prosecutions  for  libel  might  be  given, 
besides  affidavits  sworn,  and  pledges  of  honour  given  by  princes 
of  the  blood,  to  ineffectually  rebut  charges  of  disgraceful  conduct 
against  the  Brunswick  family.  But,  it  is  asked,  ought  the  fact  that 
George  IV.  was  "  a  very  bad  man,"  to  be  urged  as  a  ground  for 
hindering  the  succession  of  Albert  Edward  ?  Certainly  not ;  but  the 
fact  that  the  Four  Georges  were  all  very  bad  kings,  and  that  William 
IV.  was  not  a  good  one,  ought  not  to  be  a  ground  for  elevating 
Albert  Edward  to  the  throne.  Let  him  be  elected  or  rejected  on  his 
own  merits  and  qualifications  for  the  kingly  office.  It  is  Mr.  Hopkins 
who  would  visit  the  sins  of  the  father  on  the  children.  He  would 
always  inflict  on  us  a  family  selected  by  our  aristocratic  Whig  ances- 
tors in  haste,  and  repented  at  leisure.  Mr.  Hopkins  makes  a  merit 
for  the  Brunswicks  as  our  monarchs,  that  "they  never  finally  opposed 
the  will  of  the  people  .  .  .  when  the  crisis  came,  the  Sovereign  gave 
way."  But  what  merit  for  the  monarch  to  have  resisted  until  a  crisis 
.resulted.  How  much  misery  might  have  been  spared  to  Ireland  if 
George  II.  and  George  III.  had  not  each  resisted  all  mention  of 
Catholic  Emancipation !  What  evils  might  have  been  avoided  if 
George  III.,  George  IV.,  and  William  IV.  had  not  resolutely  deter- 
mined never  to  concede  political  life  to  the  masses  I  How  much 
sparing  of  agony,  bloodshed,  ruin,  and  waste  of  wealth  if  George  III. 
had  not  so  madly  resolved  to  insist  on  the  taxation  from  here  of  the 
American  colonies !  What  less  of  wrong  and  rapine,  and,  since, 
of  mutiny  and  murder  in  India,  if  the  king  had  not  determined 
to  prevent  the  passing  of  Fox's  India  Bill !    Surely  a  king  might 

d  2 

36  The  Gentleman 's  Magazine. 

sometimes  be  the  leader  of  his  people,  not  a  continuous  dead  weight, 
only  giving  way  when  the  pressure  was  threatening  to  force  away  the 
obstruction.  Mr.  Hopkins,  who  says  that  fifteen-sixteenths  of 
the  national  debt  has  been  created  to  carry  on  wars  which  "were 
sometimes  necessary  and  always  popular,"  asks  how  this  is  to  be 
made  an  item  in  the  impeachment  of  the  House  of  Brunswick.  I 
may  here  say  that  I  do  not  advocate  the  repudiation  of  any  national 
obligation.  I  am  of  opinion  that  a  nation  ought  to  repay  to  third  persons 
any  moneys  it  permits  a  Government  to  borrow  on  the  national  credit 
But  I  should  like  to  know  which  of  the  wars  under  the  Four  Georges 
Mr.  Hopkins  considers  to  have  been  necessary;  and  I  utterly 
deny  his  "  always  popular."  I  allege  with  Hallam  that  treaties  were 
entered  into  in  the  reigns  of  the  first  and  second  Georges  solely  for 
Hanoverian  defence  and  profit,  and  which  engaged  England  in  dis- 
advantageous and  dishonouring  wars.  One  early  act  of  George  I. 
was  to  purchase  for  the  sum  of  ,£250,000  Bremen  and  Verdun, 
This  £250,000  helped  to  swell  our  debt  and  taxes.  But,  says  Mr. 
Hopkins,  it  was  voted  by  the  House  of  Commons.  He  forgot  to 
consider  that  the  vote  was  procured  by  the  direct  falsehood  of  George  I. 
and  Lord  Carteret;  the  money  being  voted  nominally  as  subsidies  and 
arrears  to  land  forces.  This  purchase  involved  us  in  what  proved  in 
the  end  a  costly  quarrel,  in  which  Denmark,  Sweden,  and  Russia 
were  mixed  up.  Were  the  wars  in  which  we  plunged  under  George  II. 
just  or  necessary?  and,  if  either  of  the  wars  can  be  justified, 
is  it  not  most  clearly  shown  in  the  Pelham  correspondence  that  they 
were  conducted  in  the  Hanoverian  and  not  at  all  in  the  English 
interest  ?  And  when  Mr.  Hopkins  says  that  Parliament  voted  the 
money  for  these  wars,  I  remind  him  first,  that  George  II.  repeatedly 
signed  treaties  pledging  England  to  the  payments  of  enormous  sub- 
sidies, and  then  sent  such  treaties  to  England,  where  a  Parliament, 
the  property  of  the  governing  families,  endorsed  that  which  even  a 
free  Parliament  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  cancel  without  giving 
battle  to  the  monarchy.  It  is  true  that  the  Tories  and  the  "  Great 
Commoner,"  while  out  of  office,  repeatedly  protested  against  the 
subsidies  to  German  princes,  and  against  the  pro- Hanoverian  treaties. 
Can  it  be  pretended  that  the  war  with  the  American  colonies  was 
just  or  necessary,  or  even  that  it  was  popular,  except  with  the  clergy, 
the  landed  aristocracy,  and  the  Government  ?  The  evidence  is  over- 
whelming that  this  war  was  persisted  in  against  even  the  advice  of  the 
Cabinet  Ministers,  solely  from  the  wilful  wickedness  of  George  III. 
I  say  nothing  here  of  the  war  with  France,  which  forms  one  of 
the  features  dealt  with  in  my  pamphlet.  That  after  the  wars  were 
entered    upon    or  the    enterprise    decided,   popular  opinion    was 

The  Republican  Impeachment.  3  7 

manipulated,  I  have  little  doubt,  but  should  like  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  examining  the  facts  .which  Mr.  Hopkins  would  urge  in 
favour  of  the  "  always  "  popularity  of  our  wars  under  the  Bruns wicks. 

To  my  contention  that  during  the  158  years  of  Brunswick  rule  the 
governing  power  of  the  country  has  been  practically  limited  to  a  few 
families,  Mr.  Hopkins  answers  by  taking  the  present  Ministry.  Surely, 
if  his  case  were  perfect  as  he  states  it,  this  would  be  no  answer  to  me. 
But  in  truth  even  here  Mr.  Hopkins  conveniently  omits  half  a  dozen 
peers  actually  in  the  Cabinet,  and  the  host  of  titled  official  surroundings 
exercising  often  irresistible  influence  in  the  nomination  of  members  of 
the  Government  for  the  time  being,  or  in  determining  their  measures 
while  in  office.  '  In  a  speech  which  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of  a 
member  of  the  House  of  Brunswick,  Mr.  Hopkins  makes  claim  to 
"  Our  hearty  applause  and  gratitude  "  for  the  "  increase  in  extent  and 
population  "  of  the  British  Empire.  Does  he  think  of  America,  or 
does  he  refer  to  India  ?  Does  he  mean  that  Australia  and  New  Zea- 
land are  to  be  counted  as  Brunswick- won  jewels?  For  the  growth 
of  commerce  and  multiplication  of  riches,  how  is  it  shown  that  the 
Brunswicks  have  aided  either?  For  our  freedom  of  speech  and 
writing,  we  only  have  won  them  now  in  England  by  constantly 
repealing  during  the  last  forty  years  the  restrictive  legislation  of  the 
preceding  hundred  years.  To  be  told  that  there  are  no  class  privi- 
leges or  monopolies  in  England,  with  the  evidence  alone  of  Parlia- 
mentary Committees  to  guide  us  as  to  the  influence  of  the  landed 
aristocracy  in  elections,  is  to  declare  for  a  most  indefensible  proposition. 

I  have  refrained  from  retorting  any  of  the  unpleasant  adjectives 
personal  to  myself  scattered  through  Mr.  Hopkins's  paper,  and  as  to 
the*allegation  of  the  scant  number  of  those  who  think  with  me,  I  will 
only  suggest  to  that  gentleman  the  need  of  visiting  a  score  of  English 
towns  on  occasions  when  our  friends  gather  before  he  again  commits 
himself  too  strongly.  One  word  more  and  I  lay  down  the  pen.  I 
am  not  the  chief  of  the  English  Republicans.  I  am  only  a  plain, 
poor-born  man,  with  the  odium  of  heresy  resting  on  me  and  the 
weight  of  an  unequal  struggle  in  life  burdening  me  as  I  move  on.  I 
have,  I  may  boast,  won  the  love  and  affection  of  many  of  the  people; 
that  is  the  whole  of  my  chieftainship.  I  can  affirm  that  I  never  flat- 
tered the  masses  I  address.  That  I  have  ambition  to  rise  in  the 
political  strife  around  me,  until  I  play  some  small  part  in  the  legis- 
lative assembly  of  my  country,  is  true.  If  I  live,  I  will ;  but  I  desire 
to  climb  step  by  step,  resting  the  ladder  by  whose  rounds  I  ascend 
firmly  on  Parliament-made  laws,  and  avoiding  those  appeals  to  force 
of  arms  which  make  victory  bloody  and  disastrous. 

Charles  Bradlaugh. 

From  London  to  the  Rocky 


LOSE  upon  Christmas  last  year  my  friend  and  I,  having 
determined  on  making  a  tour  of  inspection  to  Colorado 
and  the  western  slopes  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  found 
ourselves,  at  the  close  of  a  winter  day,  in  the  midst  of  a 
bustle  of  people  and  portmanteaus  at  the  Euston  terminus  of  the 
London  and  North  Western  Railway,  in  time  for  the  down  express. 
Presently  we  were  flying  through  Willesden  and  making  rapid  pro- 
gress towards  Liverpool,  where  we  hoped  to  spend  a  quiet  night  pre- 
paratory to  trusting  ourselves  to  "  a  ship  at  sea." 

The  express  bore  us  gallantly,  and  at  half-past  eleven  the  follow- 
ing morning  we  were  swaying  with  the  tide  at  Prince's  landing  stage, 
and  opposite  us,  about  a  mile  away,  lay  the  Abyssinia,  sending  forth 
clouds  of  smoke,  and  looking,  as  she  is,  the  perfection  of  a  mighty 
steamer.  Soon  we  were  on  board  her  amidst  a  crowd  of  passengers, 
and  then  the  jvhistle  sounded,  the  tugs  cleared  off,  the  people 
waved  good-byes  till  they  were  far  away,  and  we  steamed  slowly 
down  the  river  with  heavier  hearts  than  we  expected,  for  as  the  tall 
masts  of  Liverpool  faded  gradually  away,  and  the  soft,  dirty  weather 
beat  on  us  ahead,  the  waves  grew  rougher  and  the  great  ship  rose 
gently  to  them,  and  then  we  were  out  in  the  open  channel,  bound  for 
New  York,  with  anything  but  promising-looking  weather.  The  glass 
in  the  saloon  was  falling  rapidly  and  the  wind  freshened  every 
moment,  but  no  one  seemed  to  notice  it,  and  the  Abyssinia  bent  her 
great  head  steadily  forwards,  in  spite  of  the  whistling  in  her  masts  and 
rigging,  and  one  by  one  the  saloon  passengers  found  their  way 
"  below."  That  night  the  wind  rose  into  a  gale,  and  detained  us 
considerably  on  our  way  to  Queenstown,  where  we  arrived,  however, 
in  time  to  meet  the  mails,  and  after  two  hours  of  peace  in  that  snug 
harbour,  we  set  forth  again  on  our  western  journey,  and  at  sunset  we 
were  fairly  out  on  the  great  Atlantic.  The  Abyssinia  proved  to  be 
a  glorious  sea-going  boat ;  gales  seemed  nothing  to  her,  nor  do  they, 
I  suppose,  to  her  competitors  on  the  rough  Atlantic,  for  be  the 
weather  what  it  may  they  still  sail  out  and  in,  never  deigning  to  do 
anything  but  close  their  portholes ;  and  though  violent  storms  may 
detain  them  a  day  or  two  on  an  unlucky  passage,  their  power  is  so 

From  London  to  the  Rocky  Mountains.  39 

great  that  usually  they  steam  through  everything,  fearing  nothing  but 
fogs  and  icebergs,  and  using  no  safeguards  against  even  these  but 
the  dismal  fog  whistle  and  a  sharp  "  look  out "  ahead — a  fact  to 
wonder  at  in  these  enlightened  ages.  I  am  told  the  French 
steamers  have  set  a  worthy  example  in  the  use  of  a  strong  electric 
light,  which  shows  an  iceberg  at  a  great  distance,  and  thus  renders 
it  comparatively  harmless.  Our  voyage  proved  anything  but  lively, 
and  we  were  glad  enough,  after  twelve  days  at  sea,  when  we  steamed 
past  the  American  forts  with  the  "  almighty  eagle  "  floating  proudly 
over  them,  and  soon  after  dropped  anchor  fairly  in  New  York.  New 
York  ?  Yes  !  but  a  wide  gulf  still  lay  between  us  and  that  mighty 
city — a  gulf  called  "  Customs,"  only  to  be  crossed  by  golden  bridges. 
"  These  your  boxes  ?  Guess  you'd  better  unlock  them."  And  then 
the  box  is  opened,  and  our  well-packed  treasures  scattered  far  and 
wide,  till  human  nature  can  stand  no  more,  and  we  display  beneath 
the  cover  a  sovereign.  Then  a  sepulchral  whisper,  "  Drop  it,"  and  a 
strong  hand  seizes  on  the  coin.  "  Guess  you  had  better  place  them 
goods  back;  nothing  dutiable  here  ;"  and  we,  growing  braver,  unlock 
a  large  portmanteau,  and  the  great  hands  grope  under  and  over  our 
treasured  stores  again  till,  stooping,  we  whisper,  "  There's  another  for 
you  when  they  are  all  through,"  and  the  sepulchral  voice  answers, 
"  You  don't  know  who's  a  looking,"  but  astonishing  is  the  difference 
in  the  mode  of  handling ;  no  more  tossing  and  tumbling,  no  more 
searching  in  secret-looking  corners,  nothing  now  but  a  confidential 
whisper  as  the  mark  goes  on  the  last  portmanteau,  "  Put  it  in  my 
hand,  sir,  as  you  take  the  keys,"  and  forthwith  the  passing  is  over, 
and  we  are  free  to  roam  America.  ' 

With  great  kindness  an  American  friend  whom  we  had  met  on 
board  had  volunteered  to  put  us  in  the  way  of  "  doing  "  New  York, 
and,  according  to  his  advice,  we  took  our  way  in  a  hired  carriage  to 
"  The  Hoffman  House."  We  were  not  to  bother  about  paying  the 
carriage,  as  the  hotel  clerks  always  manage  such  things  in  America, 
but  when,  after  a  few  days  in  that  luxurious  hotel,  we  came  to  pay 
our  bill,  the  item,  "  carriage  and  luggage  express,"  struck  us  with 
considerable  astonishment ;  for  we  had  sixteen  dollars  (a  sum  equiva- 
lent to  three  pounds  sterling  in  English  money)  to  pay  for  our  four 
mile  drive  and  the  conveyance  of  our  luggage,  which  was  not  pleasing 
to  our  British  notions,  but  which  I  find  is  not  at  all  an  extraordinary 
price  even  for  Americans  themselves  to  pay.  It  served  us  as  an  early 
warning  never  again  to  hire  a  carriage  without  first  making  secure 
arrangements,  and  to  travel  in  future  on  board  the  five  cent 
tramways,  which  run  to  every  place  within  the  city,  and  never  vary 

40  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

from  one  fixed  price.  We  found  New  York  a  splendid  city,  though  it 
scarcely  came  up  to  our  notions  of  a  second  Paris,  in  spite  of  the 
lengthy  Broadway  and  the  grand  Fifth  Avenue ;  but  we  experienced 
great  kindness  at  the  hands  of  some  of  its  inhabitants,  and  after 
"  doing  "  the  gold  room  and  a  few  of  the  city  lions  we  set  to  work  to 
take  our  passage  westwards,  which  we  at  last  did  at  one  of  the  many 
ticket  stores  scattered  widely  over  Broadway,  easily  to  be  distin- 
guished by  flaming  advertisements  outside  their  doorways,  proving 
their  own  line  to  be  the  nearest  route  to  every  imaginable  district, 
till  at  last,  after  inquiry  at  a  good  many,  from  the  gradually  decreasing 
distance,  one  begins  to  hope  that,  unlike  Mahomet's  mountain,  the 
desired  spot  may  at  length  come  to  our  very  feet.  We  finally  decided 
on  the  Erie  line,  the  president  of  which  lately  met  with  such  an 
untimely  fate,  and,  accordingly,  at  half-past  eight  at  night  we  found 
ourselves  in  a  Pullman's  sleeping  car  orj  board  the  train.  As  it  was 
night  when  we  started  we  missed  the  opportunity  of  seeing  the 
country  we  passed  through,  which  has  a  great  reputation  for  glorious 
scenery.  When  morning  came  we  found  the  line  we  took  covered 
with  snow,  and  till  we  neared  Chicago  (a  journey  of  two  nights  and 
one  day — 900  miles)  the  same  character  existed. 

It  was  early  in  the  morning  when  we  reached  Chicago,  and  our 
drive  from  the  railway  depot  took  us  through  a  scene  of  the  most 
disastrous  ruin  possible  to  imagine,  a  chaos  of  broken  bricks,  iron 
girders,  and  burnt  up  safes,  filling  great  pits  which  were  once  cellars, 
with  here  and  there  the  shell  of  a  massive  building  gutted  and 
blackened,  still  standing,  a  relic  of  former  grandeur.  In  every  open 
space,  however,  men  were  at  work  building,  hammering,  and  clearing. 
Stores  had  sprung  up  and  were  still  springing  up  in  every  imaginable 
quarter — not  only  wooden  ones,  but  great  massive  piles  of  brick 
and  stone  work,  had  already  reared  high  above  the  ruins,  and 
some  large  buildings  were  even  finished,  in  spite  of  the  cold  and  frost 
and  snow;  and  whoever  sees  Chicago  in  five  years'  time,  will  probably 
see  a  finer  city  than  it  ever  was  before.  We  were  astonished  to  see 
the  wooden  pavements  being  put  down  again,  for  there  are  stringent 
rules  against  wooden  buildings  in  the  leading  streets,  and  a  thing 
that  struck  me  more  than  any  other  was,  that  during  my  stay  in 
Chicago,  where  every  street  had  its  hundreds  of  masons  hard  at  work, 
there  was  not  a  sign  of  scaffolding  or  anything  outside  the  buildings 
to  tell  of  work  going  on  within  \  everything  being  done  inside,  and 
all  materials  hoisted  by  pulleys,  supported  by  gigantic  beams  in  the 
centre  of  the  works.  We  stayed  here  one  night  to  break  the 
monotony  of  our  lengthy  journey,  though  it  occasioned  us  no  fatigu< 

From  London  to  the  Rocky  Mountains.  4 1 

thanks  to  the  efforts  of  the  mighty  Pullman,  who  has  indeed  done  his 
utmost  to  benefit  mankind.  A  more  comfortable  mode  of  travelling 
than  his  cars  afford  cannot  be  imagined.  He  himself  runs  the  sleeping 
cars  at  his  own  risk,  and  works  them  at  his  own  expense,  upon  the 
different  lines,  the  company  granting  him  the  right  ;  the  extra  charge 
for  a  sleeping  car  being  a  dollar  and  a  half  per  night,  and  for  day 
cars  one  dollar;  the  latter  are  called  drawing-room  cars,  and  are 
fitted  up  with  luxurious  easy  chairs,  one  for  each  person,  on  which 
you  can  swing  round  at  pleasure  and  look  out  of  the  large  plate-glass 
windows,  which  are  about  four  feet  by  two,  an  immense  improvement 
on  the  smaller  ones  in  England.  I  was  told  that  one  of  Pullman's 
Palace  Cars  costs  in  making  about  twenty-live  thousand  dollars 
(nearly  five  thousand  pounds) ;  they  are  so  strongly  built  that  none 
have  ever  been  known  to  smash ;  one  individual  went  so  far  as  to 
say  that  no  one  had  ever  been  killed  in  a  Pullman  car.  By  day  the 
sleeping  cars  resemble  a  long  narrow  room  with  about  twenty  velvet 
seats  on  either  side,  leaving  a  good  wide  passage  down  the  middle. 
Over  the  seats  the  beds  unfold  at  night,  encroaching  but  little  on  the 
passage  room ;  still  the  beds  are  wide  enough  to  accommodate  two 
grown  people,  and  they  are  infinitely  more  comfortable  than  any 
ship's  berth. 

There  is  one  great i  drawback,  and  that  is  that  no  portion  is  set 
apart  for  ladies,  so  that  the  limited  amount  of  dressing  and  undress- 
ing that  goes  on  must  be  done  sitting  up  in  bed  with  the  curtains 
drawn ;  a  man  can  manage  this,  but  for  a  lady  it  has  many  draw- 
backs. Men  appear  through  the  curtains  attired  only  in  shirt  and 
trousers,  their  toilet  being  completed  in  the  open  space,  but  ladies, 
who  come  out  wholly  dressed,  have  to  tug  and  pull  and  shake  when 
fairly  on  the  floor  to  get  their  garments  straight. 

The  same  objection  will  apply  to  the  lavatories  ;  of  course  when 
breakfast  is  looming  in  the  distance,  "  perhaps  but  twenty  minutes 
ahead,"  there  is  a  rush  for  places,  ladies  and  gentlemen  coming  quite 
indiscriminately;  perhaps  a  man  may  be  before  you  brushing  frantically 
at  his  hair,  or  perhaps  a  lady  may  be  smoothing  out  her  tresses  with  the 
bright  metallic  comb  chained  on  to  the  looking  glass.  Whoever  it  is, 
no  one  can  afford  to  wait  except  the  husbands,  whose  devotion  in  the 
States  seems  to  be  very  great  Even  where  so  many  brides  are 
travelling  constantly,  it  is  impossible  to  distinguish  them  from  the 
more  sober  matrons,  and  never  have  I  seen  so  much  "  spooning  "  as 
in  the  American  trains. 

Most  of  the  companies  have  given  up  using  the  dining-cars  (which 
were  simply  ordinary  sleeping  cars  with  cooks  and  cooking  places  on 

42'  The  Gentleman fs  Magazine. 

board),  for  they  prefer  to  build  eating  houses  at  given  stations,  thus 
placing  the  profits  in  their  own  hands  instead  of  in  the  Pullman 
company's.  When  the  train  draws  near  a  meal,  the  conductor  walks' 
through  and  shouts  the  time  he  will  wait  for  whatever  meal  it  is, 
generally  twenty  to  twenty-five  minutes ;  and  a  gong  beaten  loudly 

leads  one  to  the  smoking  viands,  the  price  of  which  varies  according 


to  locality,  from  seventy-five  cents  to  a  dollar  currency  (about  four 
shillings  in  English  money),  and  generally  the  sharp  air  and  rapid 
travelling  help  one  to  do  justice  to  his  money's  worth. 

The  cars  are  kept  very  warm,  too  warm  in  fact,  by  pipes  filled  from 
a  boiler  containing  salt,  glycerine,  and  water,  which  will  not  freeze 
above  zero;  and,  generally  speaking,  even  in  the  coldest  weather  they 
are  uncomfortably  hot,  being  thoroughly  draught-tight  and  doubly 
glassed  in  every  window. 

After  leaving  Chicago  we  travelled  by  the  Burlington  and  Quincy 
line  as  far  as  Quincy,  then  by  the  Hannibal  and  San  Joe  line  to  Kansas 
City,  from  whence  by  the  Kansas  Pacific  line  to  Denver.  It  would 
require  an  endless  memory  to  remember  over  what  lines  one  travels, 
and  to  keep  them  from  clashing  with  the  lines  over  which  one  might 
have  travelled.  We  found  the  Burlington  and  Quincy  a  very  comfort- 
able line,  smooth  and  well  managed,  passing  through  glorious  agricul- 
tural country,  not  great  in  scenery  (for  one  cannot  see  a  mile  ahead), 
but  undulating  land  with  rich  black  soil,  and  the  most  comfortable, 
prosperous  looking  farm  houses  I  have  ever  seen,  a  fact  speaking  in 
itself  for  the  richness  of  the  soil.  At  Quincy  we  crossed  the  Missis- 
sippi by  the  beautiful  bridge,  a  triumph  of  light  iron  architecture  only 
equalled  by  one  other  bridge  in  the  States,  its  span  being  more  than 
a  mile  from  bank  to  bank.  We  crossed  it  in  brilliant  moonlight,  and 
the  river  looked  lovely,  so  broad  and  placid,  unequalled  by  any- 
thing I  have  ever  seen,  forming  a  striking  contrast  to  the  muddy 
Missouri,  a  mere  stream  in  comparison,  which  we  saw  next  morning 
at  Kansas  City.  We  crossed  the  Missouri  by  a  lumbering  wooden 
bridge,  which  has  the  virtue  of  being  the  only  one  yet  built  on  the 
river,  and  then  we  were  in  Kansas  City,  a  growing  town,  not  in  Kansas, 
but  in  the  State  of  Missouri. 

Opposite  it  on  the  bank  of  the  river  lower  down  is  a  town  formed 
by  John  Brown  himself,  which  the  guard  pointed  out  to  us  as  one  of 
the  Western  sights.  On  this  occasion,  however,  there  was  nothing  to 
be  seen  save  a  few  low  muddy-looking  buildings,  and  unless  John 
Brown's  soul  has  pleasantet  quarters  than  had  his  body,  one  cannot 
wonder  at  it  "marching  on." 

Eighty  miles  from  Kansas  City  comes  Topeka,  a  much  younger 

From  London  to  the  Rocky  Mountains.  43 

and  still  more  rapidly  rising  town.  We  had  to  wait  here  ten  hours 
for  the  Denver  train,  and  whilst  waiting  we  saw  our  first  Indians.  At 
this  place  the  rough  frontier  manners  may  be  said  fairly  to  commence. 

Before  we  had  walked  a  hundred  yards  from  the  station  a  drunken 
man,  with  a  revolver  poking  out  between  his  coat  tails,  staggered 
against  us,  and  to  our  relief  passed  on;  then  three  Englishmen  recog- 
nised us  as  what  they  termed  "  Johnny  Bulls,"  and  insisted  on  our 
drinking  for  the  sake  of  the  "  old  country,"  immediately  marching  us 
into  a  horrid  pot-house,  from  whence  we  escaped  after  swallowing 
three  "drinks,"  much  to  our  countrymen's  disgust,  who  stayed  to 
make  a  night  of  it.  This  occurred  about  three  in  the  afternoon,  and 
our  train  was  npt  due  till  one  in  the  morning;  however,  the  time 
melted  away  at  last,  and  at  half-past  one  we  heard  the  welcome  bellow. 
In  America  the  trains  do  not  whistle,  but  bellow  like  a  young  calf,  and 
ring  a  bell  on  approaching  a  station.  These  bells  remind  one  of 
chapels,  and  so  different  is  their  tone  that  the  station-master  knows 
what  engine  is  coming,  and  thus  recognises  the  various  trains. 

Once  fairly  on  board  (this  time  it  was  the  Kansas  Pacific)  we  turned 
into  our  berths  and  slept  the  sound  sleep  of  weary  travellers  until 
near  Fort  Ellis,  where  breakfast  awaited  us.  At  the  table  sat  a  tall 
soldierly  looking  man  who  proved  to  be  a  captain  of  American  cavalry 
— a  noted  man  in  this  part  of  the  country,  having  the  reputation  of 
being  one  of  the  few  men  who  could  make  the  niggers  fight  in  the 
war,  and  who  is  at  present  employed  with  about  four  hundred  horse 
in  keeping  the  Apache's  in  order  on  the  extreme  borders  of  New 
Mexico.  His  fort  is  the  nearest  civilised  point  to  the  old  Aztec  towns, 
to  which  he  gave  me  a  very  kind  invitation,  and  a  promise  that  if  I 
came  down  he  wonld  escort  me  to  the  said  towns  with  a  troop  of 
cavalry.  I  found  out  afterwards  that  he  was  wounded  by  the  Indians 
last  year  and  his  life  despaired  of  by  his  men,  but  all  my  endeavours 
to  draw  him  out  about  his  Indian  experience  proved  futile. 

Here  we  first  struck  the  forts  and  prairies.  The  latter  are  immense, 
inhabited  solely  by  Coyotes,  prairie  dogs,  buffalo,  antelopes,  Indians, 
and  soldiers,  all  in  constant  warfare  one  with  another.  For  a  hundred 
miles  the  line  is  thickly  strewed  with  skeletons  of  buffalo,  shot  either 
by  the  soldiers  for  food  or  by  the  passengers  in  the  trains  for  amuse- 
ment Sometimes  in  the  autumn  a  train  has  to  stop  and  allow  bands 
of  bufFalos  to  cross  the  line,  none  of  them  caring  to  do  more  than 
canter  out  of  the  way,  a  single  man  on  foot  frightening  them  more 
than  the  fastest  train. 

These  prairies;  approached  by  the  Kansas  line,  must  be  the  nearest 
buffalo  grounds  to  England,  distant  from  London  about  fifteen  days, 

44  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

at  a  cost,  say,  of  ^40,  and  perhaps  Englishmen  have  to  account  for  a 
great  many  of  the  whitening  bones.  However,  the  sooner  the  buffalos 
are  gone  the  sooner  the  Indians  will  be  peaceful,  and  when  they  are, 
the  whole  of  this  boundless  area  of  country,  capable  of  fattening  a 
million  or  so  of  buffalos  yearly,  will  be  made  use  of.  The  small  forts 
on  the  prairies  by  the  side  of  the  railways  are  worthy  of  description. 
To  begin  with  they  are  under  ground,  so  that  one  sees  nothing  but  a 
roof  raised  slightly  above  the  plain,  covered  with  earth,  and  made 
perfectly  fire-proof;  underneath  this  roof  is  about  eighteen  inches  of 
wall,  loop-holed  at  intervals,  through  which  the  unfortunate  soldiers 
can  peer  before  venturing  on  the  plain,  or  shoot  if  necessary ;  the 
whole  forming  a  simple  though  ample  stronghold  which  a  few  soldiers 
can  hold  against  any  number  of  Indians,  who,  having  purchased  their 
experience,  eschew  these  places  religiously,  knowing  full  well  that  a 
bright  "  Spencer  "  may  poke  its  nose  through  the  muddy  aperture  at 
a  moment's  notice. 

At  Pond  Creek  Station  I  noticed  a  man  standing  on  the  prairie 
leaning  against  a  gun,  and  on  inquiring  I  found  that  this  was  not  a 
sportsman  but  a  "figure"  (as  my  informant  put  it)  stuffed  by  the 
soldiers  "to  scare  Injuns,"  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  has  answered 

At  the  edge  of  the  buffalo  country  comes  "  Kit  Carson,"  a  small 
town  formed  by  freighters  before  the  railway  was  made,  and  now 
trying  hard  to  hold  its  own,  but  the  Arapahoes  make  life  there 
difficult,  having  only  a  few  months  ago  (so  I  was  told  by  a 
resident  doctor)  pounced  upon  twenty  weary  travellers  and  killed 
them  within  sight  of  the  town  buildings  !  This  town  was  the  scene 
of  the  sno wing-up  excitement :  the  train  crawled  in  one  night  during 
an  awful  snowstorm,  and  it  was  found  impossible  to  proceed.  By 
the  morning  the  snow  reached  the  carriage  windows,  and  the  train 
was  detained  there  fourteen  days,  while  the  passengers  passed  a 
miserable  Christmas,  and  were  nearly  famished  by  cold  and  hunger. 
The  eating  house,  well  provided  at  first,  grew  short  of  provisions, 
and  even  buffalo  meat  at  last  waxed  scarce,  so  that  the  price  of  food 
became  marvellously  high,  and  these  poor  travellers  were  left  starving 
and  shivering  in  the  intense  cold,  until  at  last  some  kind-hearted  man, 
with  an  eye,  perhaps,  to  trade  as  well  as  charity,  offered  them  the 
use  of  a  cargo  of  spokes  and  fellies  which  happened  to  be  on  board 
the  train,  to  be  used  as  firewood  in  their  dire  necessity. 

From  Carson  to  Denver  we  journeyed  by  night,  and  arrived  at 
seven  in  the  morning ;  there  we  found  the  ground  covered  with 
snow  and  the  cold  intense,  but  the  air  so  clear  and  light  that  I 

From  London  to  the  Rocky  Mountains.  45 

began  to  have  faith  in  some  of  the  Western  tales.  As  an  instance  of 
the  extreme  rarity  of  the  atmosphere,  I  may  mention  that  on  our 
way  from  the  station  to  the  hotel  my  companion  suggested  a  walk 
after  breakfast  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  which  lay  apparently  four 
or  five  miles  distant,  and  without  doubt  we  should  have  started 
had  we  not  found  on  inquiry  that  they  were  twenty-five  miles  away  ! 

Denver  is  a  nice  clean  town,  like  all  Western  towns,  young  and 
fast  improving,  containing  already  some  handsome  buildings  and 
about  seven  thousand  inhabitants.  Standing  close,  even  now,  to  the 
"  American  Hotel "  is  a  kind  of  "  shanty,"  at  present  used  as  a 
blacksmith's  shop,  which,  twelve  years  ago,  was  the  first  house  in 
Denver.  Twelve  years  ago  they  had  neither  post-office  nor  coach 
communication;  now  they  have  two  trains  daily  in  and  out,  and 
stage  communication  to  every  necessary  point  Denver  is  moreover 
rapidly  losing  its  name  as  a  "  hard n  town,  unlike  some  of  its 
Western  neighbours — thanks,  perhaps,  to  its  "Vigilance  Committee ;" 
at  any  rate,  one  can  walk  about  there  in  perfect  safety,  and  though 
there  are  many  rough  gentry  who  winter  there  from  the  mountain 
mines,  where  they  are  unable  to  remain  on  account  of  the  extreme 
cold,  they  mind  their  own  business,  and  let  honest  folk  alone. 

In  Denver  there  are  gambling  hells,  saloons,  billiard  rooms,  and 
one  theatre.  We  remained  there  three  days,  riding  about  the  country, 
and  making  inquiries  relative  to  our  journey  southwards,  and  on 
Sunday  morning  took  coach  for  Pueblo,  distant  about  a  hundred 
and  twenty  miles,  having  made  every  preparation  to  keep  out  the 
intense  cold  then  existing.  For  days  the  thermometer  had  been 
many  degrees  below  zero,  and  though  the  coach  was  crowded  with 
six  full-sized  much  bewrapped  men,  each  moustache  was  frozen. 
The  horses  on  the  line  are  changed  every  ten  miles,  and  their 
appearance  would  do  credit  to  the  Windsor  coach.  They  are  driven 
most  carefully,  never  exceeding  five  miles  an  hour,  decidedly  slow 
to  passengers.  One  man  drives  about  forty  miles :  he  is  then  replaced. 
Not  so  the  guard,  or  rather  "  messenger, "  who  has  charge  of  the 
mails  and  receives  all  letters  on  the  route,  remaining  with  them  to 
the  journey's  end,  travelling  three  days  and  four  nights  consecutively, 
and  sleeping  only  when  the  road  permits,  going  on  through  frost  and 
snow,  without  even  the  privilege  of  an  inside  seat,  save  when  the  coach 
is  empty.  The  guard  on  our  journey  was  making  his  second  trip,  and 
suffering  fearfully  from  exposure ;  but  a  month  later,  when  I  met  him 
in  Denver,  he  expressed  himself  as  being  quite  used  to  it,  and  was 
able  to  laugh  at  his  former  sufferings.  After  travelling  a  day  and  a 
night,  we  arrived  at  our  journey's  end,  our  route  having  taken  us 

46  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 



through  a  capital  sheep  and  cattle  country,  all  of  which  is  occupied. 
In  the  night  we  passed  Colorado  City,  a  miserable  littie  town, 
situated  in  close  proximity  to  the  "  Garden  of  the  Gods,"  a  place 
much  renowned  for  its  beauty  and  the  virtues  of  its  mineral  waters, 
which  bubble  up  at  almost  boiling  heat,  and  are  supposed  to  possess 
great  medicinal  power ;  so  great  is  their  fame  that  speculators  have 
already  stepped  in  and  purchased  every  available  inch  of  land,  pre- 
dicting for  the  place  a  great  future  as  a  resort  for  the  Eastern  multi- 

At  Pueblo  we  found  the  sessions  going  on,  and  not  even  the 
most  remote  chance  of  a  bed  for  love  or  money,  so  we  were  fain  to 
be  content  to  leave  that  festive  city,  and  journey  on  some  five-and- 
twenty  miles  through  a  bitter  snowstorm  to  a  ranche  on  the  Muddy 
Creek  (beneath  the  Green  Horn  Peak  of  the  Rocky  Mountains),  the 
property  of  a  buxom  widow.  Here  we  stayed  nearly  three  weeks, 
in  the  vicinity  of  capital  shooting. 

Here,  too,  we  spent  our  Christmas ;  our  quarters,  though  scarcely 
fashionable,  being  sometimes  very  crowded.  One  evening  we  had 
nineteen  sleepers  in  the  sitting  room :  fifteen  on  the  floor,  and  the 
remainder  in  beds  by  the  wall  side,  in  one  of  which  my  companion 
and  I  were  lucky  enough  to  obtain  quarters.  Down  here  class 
distinction  ceases ;  one  man  is  as  good  as  another — "  perhaps  better 
than  another,"  as  Lord  Dundreary  says  —  and  each  one  carries 
weapons  sufficient  to  give  account  of  at  least  five  of  his  brethren. 
I  once  saw  ten  revolvers  deposited  on  the  sofa  at  dinner  time,  and 
most  of  their  owners  were  represented  by  at  least  one  other  protector 
in  the  shape  of  a  tiny  "  Derringer,"  no  bigger  than  a  man's  thumb, 
but  as  deadly  at  close  quarters  as  the  largest  blunderbuss.  They 
say  an  Englishman,  little  knowing  their  power,  was  once  threatened 
by  one  of  these  Liliputian  pistols  :  seeing  the  pistol  pointed  at  him, 
and  a  finger  even  then  upon  the  trigger,  he  shouted  "  Look  here,  my 
man,  if  you  hit  me  with  that  thing,  and  I  happen  to  find  it  out,  I'll 
smash  every  bone  in  your  body." 

In  the  mountains  about  here  elk  are  very  plentiful;  one  often 
passes  their  cast-off  antlers  blanched  upon  the  hills.  Bears,  also,  are 
numerous,  besides  black  and  white  tailed  deer,  wolves,  foxes,  and 
beavers,  whose  dams  will  save  the  settlers  many  a  hard  day's  work. 
The  puma,  too,  is  sometimes  found,  and  whilst  at  Denver  I  saw 
a  magnificent  specimen  of  the  great  mountain  sheep  brought  in  for 
sale.  Dog  towns  are  everywhere  to  be  seen,  with  the  little  sentinels 
barking  above  the  holes;  here  there  are  no  game  laws,  and  no 
lack  of  shooting  ground.     Pueblo,  the  nearest  town,  is  composed  of 

From  London  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  4  7 

about  two  hundred  houses,  those  in  the  main  street  being  principally 
saloons,  billiard  rooms,  and  stores,  and  two  or  three  hotels,  of  which 
the  "  Drovers  "  carries  off  the  palm.  South  of  Pueblo  comes  Trinidad, 
and  south  of  Trinidad,  Santa  Fe',  seven  hundred  miles  from  Denver. 
Here  mail  communication  ceases,  and  the  route  into  Texas  is  fraught 
with  Indian  dangers  on  every  side.  Large  parties,  however,  go  down 
every  year,  and  bring  back  droves  of  cattle,  though  occasionally  the 
Indians  make  a  bad  raid,  overpower  the  men,  and  stampede  the 
stock,  thus  rendering  the  journey  full  of  peril  In  Texas  there  are 
men  who  possess  enormous  droves  of  stock,  some  holding  a  hundred 
thousand  head !  In  Denver  I  saw  Mr.  Hitson,  who  is  one  of  the 
largest  owners.  He  is  a  fine  looking  man,  evidently  accustomed  to 
the  hardest  life,  and  as  much  at  home  on  the  prairie  as  in  his  own 
stock  yard.  On  his  saddle  he  carries  a  magnificent  "  Winchester,"  the 
latest  American  rifle,  holding  nineteen  cartridges,  and  firing  them  at 
will,  a  most  perfect  piece  of  mechanism,  and  I  could  not  help 
thinking  that  the  Indians  must  have  experienced  a  great  difference 
between  this  rapid  "  Winchester "  and  the  old  brown  rifle  he  carried 
out  years  ago. 

Whilst  in  the  south  of  Colorado  I  spent  one  evening  with  three 
judges  and  some  members  of  the  Colorado  bar,  who  were  very  good 
fellows,  convivial  to  a  degree,  regaling  us  with  strong  whisky  and 
many  an  amusing  anecdote.  They  were  then  on  their  journey  to 
Trinidad,  to  hold  court,  their  work  having  no  doubt  largely  in- 
creased since  the  vigilance  committee  ceased  their  labours.  These 
same  vigilance  committees  are  grand  organisations,  composed  of  a 
large  number  of  members  working  very  quietly,  but  who,  when  once 
sure  of  their  man,  take  the  law  entirely  into  their  own  hands,  and 
having  arrested  him,  dispose  of  him  at  once. 

The  bridge  at  Denver  was  the  favourite  scaffold,  but  there  are 
trees  and  telegraph  poles  which  have  assisted  at  many  a  well  deserved 
execution.  As  far  as  I  could  judge,  the  vigilance  committees  have 
answered  well,  working  usually  with  great  justice,  though  there  are 
instances  where  the  ruffian  element  has  prevailed  and  honest  men  have 
suffered ;  but  such  exceptions  are  most  rare,  and  the  larger  part  of  the 
community  have  such  faith  in  the  committees  that  they  are  sorry  to  see 
them  dying*  out  At  a  small  fort,  on  the  Kansas  Pacific  line,  a  little 
enclosure  can  be  seen,  about  twenty  feet  square,  containing  the  bodies 
of  twelve  wretched  men,  who  were  executed  by  the  committee  during 
the  formation  of  the  railway !  It  would  be  interesting  to  read  a  his- 
fory  of  these  prairie  railways.  The  body  of  men  employed  to  make 
them  represented,  I  should  think,  the  greatest  lot  of  ruffians  ever 

48  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

congregated  together,  whose  number  can  be  to  some  extent  appreciated 
by  the  fact  that  they  built  and  completed  sometimes  five  miles  a  day. 
I  must  give  one  tale  current  in  the  States  as  a  worthy  but  assuredly 
overdrawn  illustration  of  their  doings.  This  tale  is  of  Julesburg,  a 
small  town  on  the  Union  Pacific  line,"  which  for  some  time  was 
the  head  quarters  of  the  railway  builders.  Six  weeks — six  frosty 
healthy  weeks  they  stayed  there,  and  then  went  on  to  another 
station,  leaving  behind  them  fifty-three  dead  comrades;  fifty-two 
had  died  from  pistol  wounds,  the  last  from  a  natural  death — delirium 

The  Indians  of  the  mountains  here  are  the  Utes,  generally 
considered  as  the  lowest  of  all  the  Indian  tribes,  but  the  inhabitants 
of  Colorado  know  them  better,  and  although  they  do  not  hold  them 
in  high  esteem,  except  as  peaceful  neighbours,  they  look  on  them  as 
a  warlike,  manly  tribe,  infinitely  better  and  stronger  than  their 
neighbours  on  the  plains — the  Arapahoes,  Cheytfnnes,  and  Sioux 
— with  all  of  whom  they  are  at  constant  enmity,  an  enmity  of  great 
service  to  the  whites,  for  the  Utes  are  so  dreaded  that  they 
form  an  invaluable  protection  to  the  parks  and  valleys,  the  hostile 
Indians  seldom  venturing  beyond  the  limits  of  their  own  prairies ; 
when  occasionally  they  have  so  ventured,  there  has  been  war,  and 
the  Utes  iavariably  have  been  the  conquerors.  In  Colorado  the 
Ute  tribe  is  estimated  at  twenty-five  thousand  strong,  and  their 
hunting  grounds  extend  over  a  vast  extent  of  country.  A  large 
portion  of  the  territory  is  set  aside  for  their  use  by  the  States 
Government,  upon  which  no  American  is  allowed  to  settle.  This 
plan  has  been  adopted  with  all  the  different  tribes,  some  of  whom 
are  content  to  remain  on  their  reserves,  whilst  others  object  strongly, 
and  are  usually  on  the  war-path.  The  Utes  have  been  dissatisfied, 
but  Uray,  their  head  chief,  is  a  man  of  sound  sense  and  clear 
judgment,  and  he  has  hitherto  succeeded  in  keeping  them  in  capital 
order.  It  is  his  boast  that  his  tribe  has  always  been  peaceable  to  the 
whites,  and  though  there  have  been  rumours  of  a  breaking  out,  it  has 
never  come,  and  every  year  the  great  influx  of  American  emigration 
renders  the  chance  of  its  coming  less,  and  the  security  of  the  white 
man  infinitely  greater.  I  saw  my  first  Utes  in  Denver;  they  arrived  in 
one  of  the  coaches  on  a  particularly  cold  day,  and  walked  boldly  up  to 
the  stove  in  the  hotel  reception  room,  taking  chairs  and  sitting  them- 
selves down  without  a  word  to  anybody.  Here  they  remained  for 
some  time,  whilst  I  was  occupied  in  taking  stock  of  their  appearance. 
They  were  short,  powerfully  built  men,  with  reddish-brown  faces, 
peculiarly  low  foreheads,  and  hard,  cruel-looking  eyes—evidently  great 

From  London  to  the  Rocky  Mountains.  49 

swells  in  their  own  individual  opinions.  One  was  dressed  in  tanned 
deerskin,  with  fringed  seams,  and  stained  devices,  composed  of  many 
coloured  lines,  up  and  down  his  buckskin  trousers ;  the  other  wore  the 
proud  costume  of  an  American  soldier,  and  on  his  breast  there  rested 
a  medal  about  the  size  of  an  ordinary  saucer,  no  doubt  a  pearl  of 
great  value  in  the  tribe. 

Here  they  sat  gazing  fixedly  at  the  stove  fire,  never  deigning  so 
much  as  a  glance  at  the  people  who  kept  walking  in,  till  at  last  I 
gave  up  watching  them  and  went  out,  and  on  my  return  they  had 
departed.  I  must  not  leave  Denver  without  a  glance  at  the  hotels, 
of  which  there  are  several,  but  foremost  amongst  them  comes  "  The 
American  House,"  capable  I  should  think  of  accommodating  a 
hundred  and  fifty  guests,  and  it  is  generally  pretty  well  filled.  It 
stands  on  a  hill  (as  does  nearly  the  whole  of  Denver)  and  com- 
mands a  splendid  view  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  The  charge  is  four 
dollars  a  day,  which  includes  everything,  mine  host  providing  a  most 
excellent  table,  at  which  all  the  delicacies  of  the  season  are  repre- 
sented— buffalo  hump,  venison  (deer  and  antelope),  jack,  rabbit, 
mountain  sheep,  and  bear's  meat  in  its  proper  season. 

At  the  prairie  eating  houses  along  the  road  I  found  the  tables  well 
supplied ;  the  bills  of  fare  are  sometimes  quite  astounding,  but  on 
partaking  of  the  various  dishes  a  sameness  pervades  them,  and  after 
a  few  meals  one  comes  to  the  sorrowful  conclusion  that  the  staple 
article  is  buffalo.  Nor  is  the  fact  to  be  wondered  at,  as  the  price  of 
buffalo  meat  is  three  cents  a  carcase  (about  a  penny  farthing)  with 
the  hide  thrown  in,  this  being  the  cost  of  a  Spencer-  cartridge ; 
whilst  beef  or  mutton  would  be  eight  or  ten  cents  a  pound,  with  the 
chance  of  it  going  bad  oh  the  railway  journey.  There  was  a  dinner 
some  time  ago  in  London  composed  entirely  of  American  articles 
(brought  over  frozen  in  the  steamers),  and  the  buffalo  meat  was 
spoken  of  in  high  terms  of  praise.  In  the  Far  West,  however,  one 
meets  it  under  different  circumstances,  which  accounts,  perhaps, 
for  a  diversity  of  opinion  :  at  any  rate,  after  a  few  days  the  coarse 
brown  meat  becomes  anything  but  a  luxury. 

On  the  hotel  book  at  "The  American  House"  are  a  good  many 
English  names,  and  now  that  Denver  is  on  one  of  the  principal 
routes  to  India  and  China  it  will  be  quite  a  halting  place  on  the 
long  through  journey. 

One  morning  at  breakfast  one  of  Her  Majesty's  Consuls  on  his 

road  to  China  was  seated  at  a  table  close  to  ours,  and  in  the  snowed 

up  train  we  heard  there  was  an  English  officer  trying  to  catch  the 

Indian  steamer  to  save  his  leave ;  but  whilst  detained,  he  had  the 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  s 

5<d  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

satisfaction  of  knowing  that  the  steamer  which  leaves  San  Francisco 
only  every  second  month  was  gone,  and  that  he  had  nothing  to  do 
but  recross  the  Atlantic  and  take  the  Indian  mail  from  England. 
My  companion  still  remains  among  the  game  in  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, whilst  I  returned  by  the  Kansas  Pacific  line  to  Chicago,  thence 
taking  the  Michigan  Central  line  to  Niagara,  there  crossing  by  the 
Suspension  Bridge.  On  the  road  we  had  been  detained  by  snow,  and 
missed  the  proper  halting  stations,  so  that  we  arrived  hungry  at 
Niagara.  Having  crossed  to  the  American  side  our  train  stopped, 
leaving  us  with  time  and  opportunity  to  work  our  wicked  will  on  the 
viands  afforded  at  one  of  the  hotels. 

Here  we  stayed  long  enough  to  do  ample  justice  to  our  dollar's 
worth,  and  then  proceeded  towards  our  train  again,  which  we  found 
had  recrossed  the  river,  and  was  then  lying  on  the  Canadian  side.  Of 
course  we  thought  we  had  nothing  to  do  but  walk  over  and  explain 
the  matter  to  the  bridge-keeper,  as  the  bridge  is  the  property  of  the 
railway  company.  With  this  intent  we  walked  boldly  on,  only  to  be 
signally  defeated,  for  the  toll-taker  knew  nothing  about  any  trains, 
and  he  had  only  to  collect  twenty-five  cents  from  every  one  who 
crossed  ;  so  we  talked  in  vain,  -till  some  one  suggested  that  our 
tickets  would  free  us,  to  which  the  man  assented,  "  If  you  hev  tickets 
you  are  right ;"  but  we  were  not  right  by  any  means,  for  our  inexorable 
enemy  found  that  our  tickets  were  for  the  reverse  way;  so  he  said 
"It  won't  do,  so  you  must  jest  pay,"  and  we  were  paying  and  looking 
anything  but  pleasant,  when  a  smart-looking  young  American  shouted 
out  ''  Look  here,  stranger,  I  have  you  where  the  hair's  short,"  and 
immediately  he  produced  a  ticket  for  the  opposite  way,  hitherto  lying 
crumpled  and  forgotten  in  his  pocket-book,  which  ticket  was  scruti- 
nised minutely,  and  after  a  close  examination  its  owner  was  allowed 
to  cross. 

Of  Niagara  I  shall  say  nothing,  but  reiterate  the  words  of  this  young 
American — "There's  falling  water  there  !"  So  there  is  at  Genessee 
for  the  matter  of  that,  which  we  passed  at  Rochester  early  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  and  after  a  journey  down  the  lovely  scenery  of  the 
Hudson,  our  train  arrived  safely  at  New  York. 

A  fortnight  after  I  was  in  London,  having  travelled  about  four 
thousand  miles  by  train ;  the  whole  journey  (including  a  month  in 
the  Rocky  Mountains)  having  been  accomplished  in  seventy-four 
days.    . 

An  Editorial  Mystery. 

"  I'm  a  devil,  I'm  a  devil." — Dickens's  Raven, 

j^ICODEMUS  DAWSON  was  a  devil.     There  was  no 
""  mistake  about  that.     He  was  not  so  impish  as  Bamaby's 

feathered   friend ;   he  had  none   of  the   graces  which 

distinguished  the — 

Tall  Figurant — all  in  black ! 

who  astonished  the  Lord  Keeper  and  Dame  Alice  Hatton ;  he  was 
not  a  croaker  like  Poe's  raven ;  he  did  not  bear  the  smallest  resem- 
blance to  His  Brimstonian  Majesty  who  visited  Hole-cum-Corner ; 
he  was  altogether  unlike  Dante's  devil  in  chief,  or  the  theatrical  repre- 
sentation thereof;  neither  did  the  burlesque  Pluto  who  has  become 
popular  of  late  years  resemble  him ;  yet  was  he  a  devil,  and  forsooth 
with  a  tale.     He  was  known  as  a  devil  from  his  youth  up. 

Ever  on  the  hoof, 

For  "  ass,"  or  "  pig,"  or  author's  proof.  i 

Do  you  take  me  ?  Of  course  you  do.  You  remember  that  picture 
of  Kenny  Meadows's  in  which  Nic,  as  a  boy,  is  represented  with  two 
antique  inking  bails  under  his  arms,  dinner  plates  and  pewter  pot  in 
both  his  hands,  blotches  of  ink  upon  his  neck  and  face.  More  than 
that,  you  remember  Douglas  Jerrold's  pen  and  ink  portrait  of  the 
same  individual;  and  you  exclaim  at  once  "Of  course,  Nic  Dawson 
was  a  printer's  devil."  You  are  right,  my  friend ;  "  let  us  liquor ;  we 
live  in  a  free  country  ! " 

"  In  the  days  of  darkness,  in  the  hour  of  superstition,  was  our 
subject  christened. "  Suggestive  of  many  perils  and  dangers  passed, 
is  this  little  fact ;  and  we  keep  our  devil  still  as  a  memento  of  Dr. 
Faustus  and  the  old  times.  But  it  is  not  often  you  see  such  a  devil 
as  Nic  Dawson.  The  P.  Ds,  whom  you  may  have  seen  are  nearly  as 
objectionable  as  "  those  nasty  dirty  little  boys  "  to  whom  Elizabeth 
Lentington  objected;  but  N.  D. — our  P.  D.  ! — all  honour  to  the  old 
boy,  is  grey  with  years,  and  he  hobbles  like  the  actors  who  "  do  " 
Mephistopheles  in  strict  accordance  with  "  the  fall."  He  was  the  devil 
at  "  our  office  "  in  the  days  of  wooden  presses  and  leather  inking 
balls ;  it  was  he  who  used  to  meet  the  coach  for  the  "  express " 
papers ;  it  was  he  who  used  to  run  to  and  fro  between  our  office  and 

K  2 

5  2  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

Mr.  Jobson,  F.A.S.,  who  succeeded  in  writing  half  a  dozen  paragraphs 
during  the  week,  and  producing  a  newspaper  nearly  as  large  as  a 
sheet  of  foolscap. 

He  says  he  is  the  last  of  the  devils  as  devils  went  in  his  early 
days  ;  and  so  he  is,  and  the  first  of  devils  too,  as  you  will  admit  by- 
and-by.  But  printers  will  always  keep  up  the  pleasant  fiction  of 
"the  familiar,"  and  few  who  knew  him  will  forget  the  many  virtues  of 
Nicodemus  Dawson. 

It  was  a  dark  and  boisterous  night,  at  Christmas-tide  a  year  ago ; 
just — 

At  the  hour  when  midnight  ghosts  assume 
Some  frightful  shape,  and  sweep  along  the  gloom, 

there  came  a  tapping  at  my  chamber  door. 

While  I  pondered  weak  and  weary 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore, 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping — rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Not  to  be  mysterious,  it  was  a  visitor,  and  something  more — for 
Nic  the  devil  was  not  a  visitor  in  the  general  acceptation  of  the 
term.  He  entered  so  quietly,  and  with  such  an  impressive  limp,  that 
I  involuntarily  exclaimed,  "What's  the  matter,  Nic  ?"  It  was  not  the 
night  before  publication;  he  could  not  come  for  "copy;"  he  certainly 
would  not  call  in  the  middle  of  the  night  for  his  Christmas  box ;  if 
the  office  had  been  on  fire  he  would  have  shown  some  signs  of  strong 
excitement.  But  Nic  only  sat  down  and  looked  at  me,  and  his 
manner  was  so  alarming  that  I  wondered  for  a  moment  if  the  poor 
old  fellow  had  really  departed  this  life  and  had  sent  his  ghost  to  make 
me  acquainted  with  the  melancholy  fact. 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ;  hesitating  then  no  longer, 

I  stood  upon  my  feet,  and  in  a  voice  of  thunder  exclaimed,  "Why 
the  devil  don't  you  speak  ?"  Being  frightened,  I  spoke  loud  and 
angrily  that  I  might  take  courage  from  the  strength  of  my  voice, 
assuming  something  of  that  bravado  which  I  could  not  feel. 

"  Don't  put  yourself  out,  sir,"  said  Nic. 

"  I  will  not,  my  friend,  but  I  shall  put  you  out  if  you  don't  at 
once  throw  aside  that  Pepper's-ghost  manner  of  yours." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  Nic,  looking  at  me  very  earnestly  in  the  face,  "  do 
you  remember  the  story  of  Velasquez?" 

"  No,"  I  said,  recoiling  under  the  old  man's  glance.     "  Who  the 

A  n  Editorial  Mystery.  5  3 

deuce  was  Velasquez  ?  What  have  I  to  do  with  Velasquez  at  this 
time  of  night  ?" 

"  You  know  what  night  it  is,"  said  Nic     "  It  is  Christmas  Eve.'' 

"  Even  so,"  I  replied. 

Wretched  as  the  attempt  at  humour  undoubtedly  was,  it  helped  me 
to  keep  my  spirits  up,  for  now  I  felt  sure  that  this  was  Nic's  ghost. 

The  wind  moaned  down  the  chimney,  and  brought  with  it  a 
thousand  weird  fancies,  in  which  I  saw  "  sheeted  ghosts  wandering 
through  the  storm." 

"  I  could  not  rest,"  said  Nic. 

"Alas,  poor  ghost,"  I  would  have  replied,  had  I  dared. 

"  I  have  felt  so  miserable  these  last  few  years — so  very  miserable 
— and  when  I  read  that  Christmas  number  of  yours,  in  which  you 
allude  so  touchingly  to  your  unknown  contributor,  I  rushed  out  into 
the  night,  and  came  here,  because  I  could  not  help  it." 

"Oh  !"  I  said,  feeling  a  little  reassured;  "and  now  you  are  here, 
Nic,  what  will  you  take  ?  " 

"  I'll  take  the  kettle  off  the  fire,  if  you  will  allow  me,  sir,  first," 
said  Nic,  removing  the  singing  vessel. 

He  did  not  turn  into  a  ghost  and  swallow  it,  but  went  quietly  to 
my  cupboard,  and  placed  tumblers  upon  the  table. 

"  Just  a  little  whisky,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  thank  you." 

"  That's  right,"  I  said,  and  I  touched  the  old  boy  with  my  hand. 
I  found  he  was  all  there — that  was  a  comfort ;  but  he  was  all  here, 
and  that  still  puzzled  me  much. 

"  Surely  you  do  know  the  story  of  Velasquez,"  he  said  again,  after 
mixing  my  grog  and  handing  it  to  me  with  his  usual  deferential  care. 
"  Then  I  must  tell  you  that  story,"  he  said. 

"  But,"  J  remonstrated,  "you  surely  have  not  come  here  to  tell  me 
a  story,  Nic  V 

"  I  have,  sir,  two  stories.  I  am  like  the  Ancient  Mariner  to-night 
a*nd  ipust  unburthen  myself." 

"And  am  I  to  be  the  Wedding  Guest,  Nic?"  I  said,  wondering  a 
little  at  Nic's  simile. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  if  you  knew  the  story  of  Velasquez  and  Pareja  (and 
I  cannot  help  thinking  you  do),  it  would  have  considerably  relieved 
my  mind  and  saved  your  time." 

"  Indeed,"  I  said.    "  I  hope  you  have  not  been  drinking,  Nic." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Nic,  looking  me  straight  in  the  face  again,  and 


beginning  his  story,  which,  old  as  it  is,  had  on  Nic's  tongue  a  fresh 
and  living  charm. 

"  Pareja,"  he  said,  "  was  a  slave,  literally  kicked  into  the  studio  of 

54  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

Velasquez  by  a  famous  Spanish  admiral,  who  gave  the  youth  to  the 
famous  painter.  They  called  the  slave  Pareja  after  his  master,  and  the 
painter's  pupils  made  a  drudge  of  the  woolly-headed  curiosity.  He  was 
in  fact,  sir,  the  devil  of  the  studio,  at  the  beck  and  call  of  everybody ;  he 
cleaned  the  palettes,  ground  the  colours,  cleaned  out  the  studio,  waited 
on  the  young  men,  and  was  a  slave  in  every  respect,  getting  consider- 
ably more  kicks  than  anything  else.  Velasquez,  his  master,  however, 
treated  him  always  with  the  greatest  possible  kindness,  and  the  slave 
held  him  in  the  intensest  admiration.  One  day  Pareja,  in  that  imita- 
tive spirit  which  is  characteristic  of  man,  whether  he  be  bondsman 
or  freeman,  tried  to  paint.  Of  course  he  made  a  terrible  hash  of  the 
business ;  but  the  true  passion  was  excited,  and  Pareja  hied  himseli 
to  a  deserted  garret  in  his  master's  house,  and  there  set  up  an  easel. 
He  had  nothing  but  old  disused  brushes  and  the  refuse  of  colours 
from  the  painting  room  to  work  with.  Early  in  the  morning  and  at 
odd  times  in  the  day  he  found  a  wonderful  charm  in  daubing  the 
colours  upon  his  bits  of  board  in  the  garret.  By-and-by  the  slave 
improved,  until  the  forms  which  he  produced  really  gave  him  a  posi- 
tive delight,  such  as  the  real  artist  feels  at  his  own  success.  You 
know  the  story,  sir?" 

"  Go  on,  Nic,"  I  said,  not  willing  to  interrupt  the  narrative  which 
seemed  to  flow  from  his  lips  with  a  peculiar  power  that  surprised  me 
far  more  than  anything  else  in  this  singular  and  unexpected  inter- 
view, "  Go  on,  Nic." 

"  One  day  Philip  the  Fourth  and  the  great  Rubens  honoured  Velas- 
quez with  a  visit.  In  the  train  of  the  King  were  the  highest  grandees 
of  Spain.  Following  Rubens  were  Vandyck,  Sneyders,  and  other 
celebrated  pupils  of  the  King  of  Painters.  Rubens,  you  remember, 
sir, — I  see  you  are  well  up  in  the  incidents  of  that  glorious  day  " 

"  Go  on,  Nic,"  I  said,  lost  in  astonishment  at  the  old  man's 
animated  manner,  and  uninterrupted  flow  of  words. 

"  Rubens  was  most  favourably  impressed  with  the  works  of  Velas- 
quez. The  latter  said  his  cup  of  happiness  would  be  full  if  Signor 
Rubens  would  leave  a  stroke  of.his  pencil  upon  one  of  his  pictures. 
Presenting  a  palette  to  the  great  master,  Velasquez  pointed  to  his 
chief  works.  'All  these/  said  Rubens,  with  peculiar  grace,  'are 
finished,  yet  will  I  make  an  attempt.4  At  the  same  moment  he 
picked  up  a  piece  of  canvas  which  was  lying,  face  to  the  wall,  in  an 
out  of  the  way  corner.  Turning  it  round,  he  uttered  an  exclamation 
of  surprise,  as  his  eye  fell  upon  the  picture  which  afterwards  became 
famous  as  '  The  Entombment.'  Shall  I  go  on,  sir? — you  know  what 

An  Editorial  Mystery.  5  5 

"  The  picture  was  by  Pareja,"  I  said,  entering  into  Nic's  excite- 
ment    "Painting  it  in  the  garret,  he  had  brought  it  down  to  retouch 
in  the  morning,  and  in  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  the  time  had  left  it  in' 
the  studio." 

"  I  knew  the  story  was  familiar  to  you,"  said  Nic,  "  you  who  know 
so  much.  The  slave  had  caught  inspiration  from  his  master,  had 
worked  in  secret,  and  Velasquez  was  not  ashamed  to  embrace  him. 
What  a  glorious  career  that  day  opened  up  to  him,  and  how  humbly 
he  comported  himself,  how  bravely  he  died  at  last  for  the  husband  of 
his  master's  daughter,  thanking  God  that  he  had  been  permitted  to  lay 
down  his  life  for  the  child  of  the  great  and  magnanimous  Velasquez." 

There  were  tears  in  poor  old  Nic's  eyes  as  he  spoke  of  the  slave's 
death,  and  there  was  a  rhetorical  power  in  his  simple  manner  of 
telling  the  story  that  caused  me  to  ask  myself  more  than  once,  "  Can 
this  be  old  Nic  Dawson  ?" 

"T  read  that  story,  sir,  in  an  old  book  which  you  gave  me  twenty 
years  ago,"  he  continued.  "  I  thought  of  Pareja  day  and  night.  1 
thought  of  the  inborn  power  which  any  man  has,  however  lowly  he  may 
be,  and  /vowed  to  emulate  the  slave  of  Admiral  Pareja.  Now,  sir, 
do  you  understand  me  ?" 

Nic  hesitated,  stammered,  and  fidgetted  with  his  empty  glass. 

"  Have  some  more  whisky,  Nic,"  I  said;  "the  light  is  beginning. 
to  break  in  upon  me." 

"  Do  not,  sir,  for  one  moment  think  I  place  myself  on  an  equality 
with  Saint  Pareja — for  I  have  canonised  him,  sir,  and  put  him  in  my 
calendar.  I  am  but  a  poor  ignorant  fellow  to  be  mentioned  in 
the  same  year  as  Pareja,  but  his  love  for  Signor  Velasquez  is  not 
greater  than  mine  is  for  you,  sir." 

"  Then,  my  dear  old  Nic  Dawson,"  I  said,  standing  before  him 
and  putting  out  my  hand,  "  you  are  " 

"Your  Unknown  Contributor,"  said  Nic,  bending  his  head  and 
kissing  my  hand. 

"No,  no,  Nic;  head  erect,"  I  said,  "it  is  the  special  prerogative  (i 
genius  to  elevate  the  slave  to  the  level  of  gods,  to  raise  the  printers 
devil  above  his  master.     God  bless  you,  old  Nic  Dawson  !" 

1  shall  never  forget  the  grateful  expression  which  lit  up  the  old 
man's  face  as  he  took  my  hand  in  his,  while  great  tears  ran  down 
his  cheeks. 

"  Give  me  time  to  recover  my  surprise,  old  boy,  and  we  will  talk 
this  matter  over.  Meanwhile,  I  drink  to  your  fame,  Nicodemus, 
and  wish  you  in  the  traditional  good  old  fashion  '  A  Merry 
Christmas  and  a  Happy  New  Year  ! ' " 

56  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Nic  put  his  glass  to  his  lips,  and  pushed  back  the  grey  locks  that 
fell  over  his  forehead.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  had  been  relieved 
from  a  weight  of  woe  and  trouble. 

"  I  rejoice  to  find,  Nic,  that  you  are  not  a  ghost,  but  a  genius.  I 
feared  you  were  the  former  when  you  came  in  here  to-night.  We  must 
republish  these  contributions  of  yours.  They  will  make  a  pleasant 
Christmas  book.  And  here  is  a  capital  introduction  ready  made  for 
them — this  interview.  Aye,  and  a  title  too,  Nic — a  title  that  will 
take  the  town,-  depend  upon  it." 

"  I  fear  you  are  over-estimating  my  stories,"  said  Nic. 

"  We  had  not  published  them  ourselves,  old  friend,  and  made 
inquiries  concerning  the  unknown  writer,  had  they  not  been  worth 
republication,"  I  said  with  an  air  of  editorial  authority. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,"  said  the  old  man. 

"They  shall  be  published  as  a  Christmas  book,"  I  continued, 
"  and  its  title  shall  be  '  The  Devil's  Own/  though  devil  no  longer ; 
for  you  shall  devil  it  no  longer  here,  my  friend  :  we  must  place  you 
on  equal  terms  with  ourselves,  Nic ;  it  shall  not  be  said  that  those 
Spanish  fellows  are  better  gentlemen  than  we  of  these  colder 

"  Nor  shall  it  be  said  that  Pareja  was  more  grateful  and  had  more 
humility  than  Nic  Dawson,  the  printer's  devil,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Then  name  this  literary  child  of  thine,  Mr.  Dawson." 

"  The  Devil's  Own,"  said  Nic,  promptly. 

"So  be  it — here's  success  to  'The  Devil's  Own."' 

"  I  wish  to  ask  one  favour,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Name  it — your  wishes  shall  be  commands  to-night  at  least" 

"  It  is,  sir,  that  your  own  beautiful  story  of" 

"  No  further  compliments,  Nic,  an  you  love  us,"  I  said,  interrupting 
his  little  speech ;  "  to  be  likened  unto  Velasquez,  to  find  in  my  slave 
a  genius  contributing  to  my  fa  nous  Christmas  numbers  year  after 
year  in  secret  is  enough  for  one  night's  romance." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  the  favour  I  still  venture  to  ask  is  that  you  will 
condescend  to  print  your  beautiful  story  of first  after  the  'Intro- 
duction,' seeing  that  the  contemplation  of  the  secret  and  hidden  woe 
of  the  leading  character,  coupled  with  your  tender  inquiries  after  an 
unknown  writer  whose  story  came  next,  excited  me  into  this  night's 

"Go  thy  ways,  dear  old  Nic  Dawson — thou  hast  thy  will !  Instruc- 
tion to  Printer  whenever  this  famous  Christmas  book  is  published,  let 

my  'beautiful  story  of '  stand  first  after  the  Introduction." 

J.  H. 

The  Texican  Rangers. 

T  Brazos,  Santiago,  June,  1870,  I  was  recruited  for  the 
Rangers.  A  placard  in  the  window  of  a  public-house 
announced  what  was /wanted.  I  went  in,  and,  having 
been  medically  examined,  was  accepted.  Government 
advanced  pay  for  necessary  expenses.  There  were  eighteen  enlisted 
with  me.  We  bought  three  horses  each — the  best  that  could  be  had, 
for  we  knew  our  lives  would  depend  often  on  their  running  powers. 
We  were  then  sent  up  the  country  to  our  detachment.  The  Rangers 
number  in  all  about  a  thousand.  Their  head-quarters  is  St.  Antone, 
a  place  which  I  never  saw.  They  are  divided  into  detachments  of 
about  a  hundred  men  each,  which  are  posted  about  two  days' 
journey  from  each  other,  though  the  distances  were  variable,  for  we 
were  always  moving. 

The  sole  and  only  duty  of  the  Rangers  is  the  protection  of  the 
frontier  settlements  against  the  Comanche  Indians,  who  are  perpetu- 
ally breaking  in  upon  them,  and  seem  to  set  no  value  whatever  either 
on  their  own  lives  or  those  of  other  people.  One  would  expect, 
where  a  race  like  the  Indians  are  destined  to  extinction,  and  where 
life  and  property  are  lost  every  day  by  their  inroads,  that  they  should 
be  destroyed  as  fast  as  possible,  or  that  by  some  means  they  should 
be  absorbed  into  the  dominant  race.  The  infusion  of  Indian  blood 
would  not,  I  think,  do  the  civilised  races  any  harm.  The  Texicans 
themselves  would  extirpate  them  if  they  were  allowed ;  but  the 
United  States  Government  will  not  permit  it 

Without  any  previous  training  we  were  obliged  at  once  to  take 

part  in  active  service,  and  active  service  with  the  Rangers  scarcely 

'  knew  any  intermission.     If  not  fighting  or  foraging  we  were  minding 

the  horses.      As  each  man   had   three,  there  were  always  a  large 

number  feeding,  which,  of  course,  required  a  strong  guard. 

We  were  officered  by  Texican  gentlemen,  sons  for  the  most  part 
of  extensive  owners  of  land  and  cattle-ranche  masters.  Then  we  had 
inferior  officers,  corresponding  I  dare  say  to  sergeants  in  our  own 
army,  who  dealt  out  ammunition  and  provisions  and  did  other  duty 
of  the  same  kind.  One  of  these  went  out  with  us  recruits  when  we 
arrived  to  teach  us  the  use  of  the  sixteen-shooter.  The  sixteen- 
shooter  held  that  number  of  cartridges  stowed  away  in  the  stock  so 

58  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

that  we  could  fire  sixteen  shots  without  reloading.  According  as 
each  was  fired  we  pulled  back  the  cock,  which,  working  within,  threw 
out  the  used  cartridge  and  brought  up  a  fresh  one.  We  were  not 
slow  in  learning  to  shoot.  Men  are  quick  enough  in  learning  things 
most  certainly  useful  to  themselves.  I  have  been  brought  up  in  the 
open  air  and  have  good  sight,  and  though  I  never  had  a  rifle  in  my 
hand  before,  got  on  well  enough.  But  from  the  very  commencement 
we  had  to  go  out  with  the  rest.  We  could  at  all  events  club  our 
guns.  When  we  had  nothing  else  to  do  we  used  to  practise  shooting: 
cut  a  circle  of  bark  out  of  a  tree  and  fire  at  that.  We  had  a  good 
deal  of  deer-shooting,  too,  and  some  sport  at  wild  cows.  We 
seldom  or  never  had  vegetables.  Biscuits  and  the  meat  that  we  pro- 
cured ourselves  formed  our  usual  fare.  On  an  average  we  had  a 
row  .with  the  Indians  once  a  week.  We  generally  got  the  best  of 
it.  Their  muzzle-loading  rifles  and  bows  and  arrows  were  no  match 
for  our  sixteen-shooters.  Even  in  a  scrimmage  with  clubbed  guns 
we  were  generally  too  much  for  them.  Sometimes  when  they  were 
superior  in  numbers  we  had  to  take  to  our  heels.  Our  horses  were 
considerably  better  than  theirs,  so  that  we  were  safe  enough  if  an 
arrow  or  a  bullet  did  not  go  through  our  backs.  They  shoot  their 
arrows  with  tremendous  force.  Once  as  we  were  galloping  away 
from  them  I  saw  an  arrow  flash  right  through  a  man  riding  a  little 
before  me  and  stick  in  another  beyond  him.  The  first  dropped 
immediately ;  the  other  put  back  his  hand  and  wrenched  the  arrow 
out.  It  was  in  his  side,  by  the  belt.  The  arrows  have  no  barbs. 
He  galloped  on  about  four  miles  before  he  dropped.  The  Coman- 
ches  take  no  prisoners,  or  if  they  do  they  burn  them.  Their  rifles 
and  ammunition  are  supplied  to  them  by  white  renegades.  Any  of 
these  fellows  that  we  caught  we  always  hanged  or  shot.  There  are 
white  renegades  living  with  the  Indians.  Old  hands  used  often  to 
say  "Twas  a  renegade  planned  that  game." 

The  Alapaches  are  Mexican  Indians,  separated  from  the  Coman- 
ches  by  the  Rio  Grande.  These  two  tribes  fight  whenever  they 
meet.     The  Comanches  are  much  finer  men. 

We  had  scouts  out  always  lying  about  the  country,  but  news  of  an 
inroad  was  generally  brought  to  us  from  the  settlers  themselves. 
The  extent  of  country  is  so  great  that  it  would  require  an  immense 
number  of  men  to  guard  it  properly.  Intelligence  of  the  movements 
of  the  Indians  was  often  brought  by  trappers  and  hunters.  Of  course 
they  hunted  and  trapped  with  their  lives  in  their  hands — the  Indians 
let  no  one  escape.  Beavers,  deer,  and  prairie  rats  were  the  principal 

Tlie  Texican  Rangers.  59 

On  news  reaching  us  of  a  raid  we  set  out  forthwith,  and  finding 
the  tracks  of  the  Indians  followed  them  as  far  as  would  be  safe. 
With  our  good  horses,  and  being  unencumbered  with  cattle,  we 
generally  overtook  them.  If  they  had  merely  stolen  we  took  their 
prey  from  them  and  flogged  them ;  if  they  had  committed  murder — 
blood  for  blood.  Whites,  too,  were  often  caught  cattle-stealing.  The 
settlers,  if  they  caught  them,  lynched  without  ceremony.  Except  old 
offenders,  whom  we  hanged,  we  sent  white  cattle-stealers  to  the  head- 
quarters :  what  befell  them  there  I  don't  know.  The  cattle-stealers 
used  to  drive  their  booty  out  into  the  prairie  so  as  to  avoid  the 
settlers  along  the  frontier ;  they  used  to  make  a  detour  to  the  eastern 
part  of  Texas  and  sell  the  cattle  there. 

Two  years  ago  was  a  particularly  hot  time  for  the  Rangers.  The 
Indians  were  much  quieter  before,  but  this  year  they  were  angry  and 
troublesome.  We  were  on  their  tracks  nearly  every  week.  Sometimes 
they  did  not  fight,  and  seldom  unless  they  were  superior  in  numbers. 
We  generally  charged  them  after  shooting  off  all  our  cartridges.  All  the 
men  had  revolvers  and  bowie  knives,  but  they  generally  battered  the 
Indians  with  the  stocks  of  their  guns.  The  native  Texicans  all  fought 
well.  In  addition  to  being  magnificent  riders  they  all  had  a  deep 
ancestral  hatred  to  the  Indians.  Each  Texican  had  some  friend  or 
relation  who  had  suffered  in  some  way  at  their  hands,  so  fighting 
was  a  thorough  pleasure  to  them.  We  foreigners,  who  fought  for  pay, 
were  not  so  thorough-paced. 

When  the  Indians  met  us  in  charge  they  flung  their  little  toma- 
hawks at  us,  and  often  emptied  saddles,  for  they  threw  very  straight. 

I  was  thrown  from  my  horse  once  in  a  milee,  and  was  embraced  on 
the  ground  by  a  Comanche,  also  unhorsed.  We  were  rolling  on  the 
ground  some  time.  He  was  stronger  than  I,  and  had  a  terrible 
grip  on  my  throat,  but  luckily  a  friend  of  mine,  an  Englishman,  saw 
the  state  of  affairs  and  tapped  him  on  the  head ;  I  dare  say  I  should 
have  been  done  for  but  for  that. 

The  Comanches  are  small  men,  but  very  strong  and  wiry.  They 
have  coarse  black  hair  and  are  not  at  all  ugly  in  countenance.  They 
look  very  well  on  horseback,  but  they  don't  look  well  on  foot. 
Riding,  they  can  get  down  along  the  flank  of  the  horse  and  take  a 
shot  at  you  under  the  neck.  Our  fellows  used  to  shoot  at  the  neck 
of  the  horse  and  sometimes  hit  the  Indian  on  the  other  side. 
Constant  practice  had  made  some  of  our  men  almost  perfect.  The 
usual  way  in  these  cases  was  to  shoot  the  horse,  and  then  as  he  fell 
to  try  and  get  a  shot  at  the  Comanche  before  he  could  recover  him- 
self and  get  behind  the  fallen  horse.     It  was  when  the  Indians  were 

60  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

more  numerous  than  us  that  this  generally  happened.  We  used  to 
dismount  and  get  together  in  a  cluster,  firing  over  the  backs  of  the 
horses,  while  the  Indians  would  gallop  round  and  round  us,  shooting 
from  the  wrong  side  of  their  animals.  I  shot  a  few  horses  while  I 
was  with  them,  but  never  an  Indian  to  my  knowledge. 

At  one  time  all  the  detachments  of  the  Rangers,  by  a  combined 
movement,  advanced  up  the  country,  driving  the  Indians  before 
them.  We  drove  them  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  did  not  turn 
till  we  saw  Santa  Fe',  in  New  Mexico.  We  thought  that  having 
been  driven  so  far  inland  they  would  not  take  the  trouble  of  coming 
all  the  way  down  to  the  settlements  again ;  but  I  think  they  were 
just  as  troublesome  after  this  as  before.  There  was  a  line  some 
distance  in  front  of  the  settlements,  and  any  Indian  caught  within 
that  was  flogged. 

A  year  before  I  joined  the  Rangers  the  chieftains  of  the  Comanches 
combined,  overpowered  them,  and  advanced  into  the  settlements. 
There  was  tough  fighting  before  they  were  expelled,  but  they  never  • 
combined  after  that.  There  was  such  a  distance  between  the 
detachments  that  any  one  of  them  could  be  easily  overpowered 
before  any  assistance  could  come  from  the  rest 

The  Rangers  were  silent  men  ;  very  little  talking  or  fun  went  on 
amongst  us,  and  real  hard  work  it  was  for  the  most  part.  Sleeping  in 
one's  clothes  night  after  night  takes  cheerfulness  out  of  a  person  fast 
enough.  There  was  no  shaving,  very  little  washing,  no  change  of 
clothes.  The  men  were  tanned  and  dried.  We  had  few  quarrels, 
but  these  were  generally  fatal.  An  insulting  look  or  word  was  replied 
to  by  a  bullet.  You  might  as  well  shoot  a  man  at  once  as  speak 
angrily  to  him.  Our  pay  was  forty  dollars  a  month  (about  ten  pounds). 
Besides  this  the  men  had  plunder  divided  amongst  them  from  time 
to  time.  Money  up  there  was  not  of  much  avail,  however.  Some- 
times we  came  down  near  the  settlements.  The  settlers  were 
hospitable  fellows ;  we  often  had  music  and  dancing  at  the  ranches. 
The  frontier  men  are  all  cattle-farmers  and  horse-breeders.  The 
ranches  are  the  large  farms.  Thd  owner  of  these  has  native  servants 
or  slaves,  called  peons.  The  farmers  of  the  frontier  are  generally  very 
fine  fellows.  It  requires  a  good  deal  of  pluck  to  settle  down  there, 
for  the  Indians  are  perpetually  making  inroads.  Even  the  children 
are  armed  there.  Little  children  whom  at  home  you  would  scarcely 
trust  with  a  penknife  wear  revolvers  here,  and  can  use  them  well,  too. 

The  prairies  are  covered  with  what  is  called  mosquito  grass. 
There  are  few  trees,  but  plenty  of  scrub  and  bushes.  The  prairies 
are  well  supplied  with  living  things :  great  herds  of  wild  cows,  horses, 

The  Texican  Rangers.  61 

donkeys,  and  mules,  keyutah  (a  kind  of  wolf),  rattle-snakes,  and 
skunks,  mocking-birds,  wild  turkeys,  and  owls.  The  owls  are  very 
large  and  make  a  great  noise. 

The  country  has  no  hills,  but  plenty  of  elevations:  It  might  be 
said  to  run  in  waves.  Mosquitoes  only  appear  where  the  ground  is 
swampy  or  near  rivers.  We  had  no  tents.  At  night  we  rolled  our- 
selves up  in  our  blankets  and  slept  by  the  fire.  When  we  stayed  a 
few  days  in  one  place  we  used  to  cut  down  branches  and  make  tents. 
It  is  not  by  any  means  an  unpleasant  climate.  In  the  morning  a 
breeze  sets  in  from  the  south-east  and  cools  the  whole  day,  dying  in 
the  evening  when  it  is  not  required. 

I  was  about  a  year  with  the  Rangers;  during  that  time  we 
lost  over  a  third  of  our  number.  I  left  them  near  Fort  Duncan. 
We  went  there  to  lay  in  provisions  and  ammunition.  I  made  a  raft 
of  trees  and  pushed  out  alone  on  the  Rio  Grande,  which  flows  through 
that  place.  The  Rio  is  a  strong,  rapid  river,  and  I  went  down  gaily. 
I  only  floated  by  night,  for  fear  of  the  Indians.  Towards  daybreak 
I  used  to  push  ashore  with  a  long  pole  and  lie  close  in  the  reeds  and 
flags  along  the  banks.  I  used  to  lie  there  all  the  day,  and  as  soon 
as  it  was  dark  push  out.  In  addition  to  this  precaution  I  piled  up 
branches  around  me  on  the  raft,  so  that  the  whole  looked  like 
a  drift  of  timber  collected  by  accident  I  suppose  I  travelled  a 
hundred  miles  each  night.  There  are  no  rapids,  but  the  river  is 
strong  and  fast.  For  food  I  had  a  little  bag  of  biscuits  and  water  in 
great  abundance. 

Texas  is  a  very  promising  State.  The  original  inhabitants  are  a 
mixture  of  Spaniards  and  Indians.  The  language  is  Spanish,  with  a 
few  Indian  words.  The  Americans,  however,  are  pouring  in  rapidly 
and  going  ahead  everywhere.     They  have  money,  skill,  and  pluck. 

Arthur  Clive. 

Smokeless  Explosives   for 
Sporting   Guns. 


;<j  UNPOWDER  at  the  present  epoch  may  be  said  to  have 
reached  the  acme  of  perfection,  and  yet  many  are  dis- 
satisfied with  it  as  a  sporting  explosive.  Those  who  are 
accustomed  to  its  use  can  urge  but  few  facts  in  its 
favour,  the  chief  of  which  are — safety  from  spontaneous  combustion 
and  regularity  of  explosive  power.  On  the  other  hand,  after  every 
combustion  of  gunpowder  a  residuum  is  found  in  firearms,  which  in 
warm  weather  rapidly  stiffens  or  beads,  and  lines  the  inside  of  the 
parrel  with  a  powder  crust;  in  damp  weather,  as  every  sportsman 
knows,  this  deposit  becomes  of  a  fluid  and  slimy  consistency.  This 
is  produced  by  incomplete  decomposition,  and  consists  of  the  material 
parts  thrown  off  on  the  decomposition  of  the  gunpowder ;  the  ashes 
of  the  charcoal,  and  sulphur  in  combination  with  charcoal,  appear  to 
predominate  in  this  deposit.  The  more  impure  the  ingredients  which 
composed  the  gunpowder,  and  the  greater  the  quantity  consumed,  the 
greater  will  be  the  deposit  With  large  charges  proportionately  less 
deposit  is  left  in  cannon  than  with  lesser  ones.  This  is  accounted  for 
by  the  greater  force  with  which  the  former  upon  their  discharge  pro- 
ject a  great  part  of  the  residuum  out  of  the  piece  than  do  the  latter 
from  the  proportionately  longer  barrels  of  sporting  guns.  In  the  former 
of  these  cases,  in  guns  of  great  diameter,  it  spreads  itself  over  the 
whole  interior  surface,  and  so  forms  a  very  thin  layer,  which  readily 
imbibes  the  atmospheric  air.  The  acids  which  this  deposit  contains 
act  as  decomposers  of  the  metal  of  the  interior  of  cannon,  as  well  as  of 
gun  barrels.  During  the  long  and  continuous  use  of  a  gun  barrel  the 
interior  has  been  noticed  to  become  restricted  by  this  residuum  to  a 
prejudicial  degree.  Indeed,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  where  sports- 
men have  had  their  hands,  and  in  some  cases  their  heads,  blown  off 
when  in  the  act  of  loading,  the  fons  ct  origo  of  the  mishap  has  been 
found  in  this  deposit  or  residuum  of  which  we  are  speaking.  For 
instance,  if  a  muzzle-loading  sporting  gun  be  not  cleaned,  with  every 
new  charge  a  portion  of  the  powder  slime  or  crust  is  driven  into 
the  breech  or  chamber  of  the  gun,  and  a  very  dangerous  increase 
of  this  deposit  is  occasioned,  which   intercepts  the  fire,  or  may, 

Smokeless  Explosives  for  Sporting  Guns.         63 

upon  loading,  effect  a  spontaneous  ignition.      It  not  unfrequently 
happens  in  the  army  and  navy  that  from  not  carefully  "  sponging " 
a    great  gun    after    firing,    upon    inserting    the  next    charge    it 
spontaneously  explodes,  and  blows  the  "sponger"  and  "loader" 
from    the    muzzle.       Many    experiments    have    elicited    that    the 
residuum  of  the  powder  in  the  gun  barrel  is  phosphorescent — i.e., 
emits  a  light  in  the  dark — like  many  other  oxides,  especially  those 
deposited  by  fire  gas  ;  but  this  is  not  a  dangerous  appearance.     The 
cause  of  the  powerful  action  of  inflamed  gunpowder  is  the  extraor- 
dinarily rapid  expansion  of  the  gases  and  vapours  of  the  so-called 
powder-damp,  wrought  by  the  high  degree  of  heat  to  intense  elas- 
ticity, which,  in  its  sudden  effort  to  occupy  a  much  greater  space  than 
it  occupied  in  its  solid  and  material  state,  strives  to  overpower  every 
obstacle  that  would  oppose  its  expansion.     This  may  be  exempli- 
fied by  igniting  a  single  thoroughly  dry  grain  of  gunpowder  in  the 
open  air,  when  it  will  be  found  to  evolve  and  spread  around  itself  a 
heated  mass  of  air,  which  at  the  distance  of  four  or  five  times  the 
diameter  of  the  grain  is  still  capable  of  inflaming  another  grain.    The 
spherical-shaped  space  which  at  this  moment,  in  obedience  to  the 
aerostatic  law,  the  expanding  powder  takes  possession  of  on  all  sides 
around  it,  and  within  which  it  is  capable  of  communicating  inflam- 
mation, is  therefore  from  about  five  hundred   to  a  thousand  times 
greater  than  was  the  material  bulk  of  the  grain.     Experiments  and 
calculations  have  shown  that  the  powder-damp,  evolved  by  a  closely- 
confined  quantity  of  powder,  at  the  moment  of  inflammation  and 
completest  possible  combustion  strives  to  occupy  a  space  about  five 
thousand  times  greater  than  it  occupied  before,  and  from  which  it 
expanded.      This   would   denote  a  force   or  power  equal   to   five 
thousand  times  the  pressure  of  the  surrounding  atmosphere.     It  is 
a  great  pity,  however,  that  this  continuous  and  rapid  combustion 
should  all  end  in  smoke.     But,  as  all  sportsmen  are  aware  to  their 
chagrin,  such  is  the  case,  even  with  the  best  gunpowder  ever  made. 
As  a  natural  Consequence,  after  firing  the  first  barrel  it  is  difficult 
to  "get  in"  the  second  at. a  "covey,"  as  by  the  time  the  curtain 
of  smoke  has  lifted  and  enabled  the  sportsman  to  aim  again  at  the 
retreating  birds  they  are  generally  at  a  range  when  his  tiny  projectiles 
fall  innocuous  about  their  feathers.    To  invent  a  sporting  explosive 
which  should  be  "  smokeless,"  and  at  the  same  time  shoot  with  the 
regularity  of  gunpowder,  has  been  the  object  of  numerous  practical 
sportsmen  and  of  chemists  for  the  last  fifty  years.     Until,  however, 
within  the  last  four  or  five  years  no  "  practically"  safe  and  efficient 
sporting  explosive  resulted  from  the  amount  of  attention  bestowed 

64  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

on  the  subject.  Amongst  these  inventions,  that  of  gun  cotton  is 
first  worthy  of  note,  inasmuch  as  it  approached  nearer  to  the 
required  desiderata  for  a  sporting  explosive — *>.,  smokelessness 
— than  any  other  invention  having  cellulose  tissue  as  a  basis.  In 
1832  M.  Braconnot,  a  chemist  of  Nancy,  in  France,  in  treating 
starch  with  concentrated  azotic  acid  was  led  to  the  discovery  of  a 
pulverulent  and  combustible  product,  to  which  he  gave  the  name  of 
icyloidine.  This  discovery  was  passed  over,  nevertheless,  with  but 
little  notice,  till  in  1838  M.  Pelouze,  a  chemist  of  some  celebrity, 
resuming  the  labours  of  M.  Braconnot,  discovered  that  the  very 
simple  matters  paper,  cotton,  linen,  and  a  variety  of  tissues,  as  well 
as  other  substances,  possess  the  fulminating  property  attributed  to 
starch.  It  remained,  however,  for  Professor  Schonbein,  of  Basle,  to 
adapt  this  discovery  to  firearms  in  the  form  and  substance  known  as 
gun-cotton.  This  explosive  is  prepared  by  steeping  cotton-wool  for  a 
longer  or  shorter  period  in  a  mixture  of  nitric  and  sulphuric  acids, 
thoroughly  washing  and  then  drying  at  a  gentle  heat  It  consists, 
chemically,  of  the  essential  elements  of  gunpowder — />.,  carbon, 
nitrogen,  and  oxygen;  but,  in  addition,  it  contains  another  highly 
elastic  gas — hydrogen.  The  carbon  in  the  fibres  of  the  wool 
presents  to  the  action  of  flame  a  most  extended  surface  in  a  small 
space,  and  the  result  is  an  explosion  approaching  as  near  as  possible 
to  the  instantaneous :  in  consequence  of  its  rapid  ignition  the  recoil 
of  the  gun  is  most  violent  Sufficient  time  is  not  given  to  put 
the  charge  in  motion,  hence  it  is  not  looked  upon  with  favour 
as  a  projectile  agent  amongst  sportsmen.  In  addition  to  such  a 
serious  defect  as  the  foregoing,  gun-cotton  possesses  an  unhappy 
knack  of  spontaneous  combustion  when  in  the  act  of  drying 
after  being  damped,  either  purposely  to  keep  it  safe  in  store 
or  from  the  result  of  exposure  to  the  atmosphere.  One  would 
imagine  that  the  recent  awful  explosion  at  Stowmarket  and 
dreadful  loss  of  life  was  sufficient  warning  to  our  Government  to 
desist  from  attempting  to  thrust  it  into  the  hands  of  the  army  and 
navy  for  engineering  purposes.  We  are  informed,  however,  that, 
much  against  the  wish  and  expressed  opinion  of  the  most  eminent 
engineers  of  the  day,  such  is  their  intention.  The  Prussian  Govern- 
ment, after  many  trials,  rejected  gun-cotton  from  their  arsenals, 
adopting,  instead,  the  new  explosive  called  "  Lithofracteur,"  manu- 
factured by  Messrs.  Krebs  and  Co.,  of  Cologne.  As  Lithofracteur 
cannot  explode  unless  ignited  by  a  detonating  fuze,  one  would 
imagine  that  our  Government  would  follow  the  example  of  the 
Prussians  and  adopt  it  for  mining  and  engineering  purposes.     We 

Smokeless  Explosives  for  Sporting^  Guns.         6  5 


are  given  to  understand,  however,  that  a  "  special  Act "  was  hurried 
through  the  Legislature  to  prohibit  the  use  of  nitro-glycerine  in  this 
country ;  and,  as  it  happens,  in  a  small  measure,  to  be  one  of  the 
component  parts  of  Lithofracteur,  the  country  at  large  is  prohibited 
from  traffic  in  the  article.  But  to  return  to  our  "smokeless"  sporting 
explosives.  Saw-dust  treated  in  various  ways  has  also  been  tried  as  a 
substitute  for  gunpowder,  and  with  varying  success.  Most  decidedly 
the  best  of  this  description  of  explosives  is  Schultze's  Wood  Powder, 
which  is  made  in  the  following  way  : — The  grains,  being  collected  in 
a  mass,  are  subjected  to  a  treatment  of  chemical  washing,  whereby 
calcareous  and  various  other  impurities  are  separated,  leaving  hardly 
anything  behind  save  pure  woody  matter,  cellulose  or  lignine.  The 
next  operation  has  for  its  end  the  conversion  of  these  cellulose  grains 
*  into  a  sort  of  incipient  xyloidine,  or  gun-cotton  material,  by  digestion 
with  a  mixture  of  sulphuric  and  nitric  acids.  Our  readers  will 
understand  that,  inasmuch  as  the  wood  used  as  a  constituent  of  the 
Schultze  gunpowder  is  not  charred,  its  original  hydrogen  is  left,  and 
by-and-by,  at  the  time  of  firing,  will  be  necessarily  utilised  towards 
the  gaseous  propulsive  resultant.  Next,  washed  with  carbonate 
of  soda  solution  and  dried,  an  important  circumstance  is  now  recog- 
nisable. The  grains,  brought  to  the  condition  just  described,  are  stored 
away  in  bulk,  not  necessarily  to  be  endowed  with  final  explosive 
energy  until  the  time  of  package,  transport,  and  consignment  Only 
one  treatment  has  to  be  carried  out,  and  it  is  very  simple.  The 
ligneous  grains  have  to  be  charged  with  a  certain  definite  percent- 
age of  some  nitrate,  which  is  done  by  steeping  them  in  the  nitrate 
solution  and  drying.  Ordinarily  a  solution  of  nitrate  of  potash  (com- 
mon saltpetre)  is  employed;  but  in  elaborating  certain  varieties  of 
white  powder,  nitrate  of  baryta  is  preferred. 

By  Clark's  patent  method,  pyroxylinised  wood  grains,  without  being 
subjected  to  frequent  washings,  are  combined  with  other  constituents, 
with  a  view  to  neutralise  the  free  acid.  The  chief  fault  in  all  these 
descriptions  of  powder  is  want  of  regularity  in  explosive  force. 
Schultze's  Powder  as  now  made  is  much  better  in  this  respect 
than  it  used  to  be,  more  care  being  bestowed  on  its  manufacture. 
Quite  recently  a  discussion  arose  in  the  leading  sporting  journals 
concerning  smokeless  explosives  for  sporting  purposes ;  from  which 
it  appeared  that  Reeves's  gun-felt  has  earned  for  itself  a  considerable 
amount  of  popularity.  It  appears  from  the  newspaper  correspondence, 
to  which  many  well-known  sportsmen  contributed,  that,  as  compared 
with  gunpowder,  Reeves's  gun-felt  gives  equal  penetrative  power  and 
regularity,  allied  to  freedom  from  smoke  and  diminution  of  recoil,  great 
Vol.  X.  N.S.  1873.  f 

66  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

cleanliness,  and  no  corrosion  of  the  barrels  with  the  ordinary  care 
bestowed  on  all  firearms,  perfect  safety  in  use  and  keeping,  it  being  ' 
incapable  of  active  explosion,  unless  confined  as  in  the  barrel  of  a  gun. 
The  felt-  in  a  loose  form  may  be  fired  with  as  much  safety  as  the  toy 
called  "parlour  lightning."  Powder  when  once  damp  cannot  be 
restored  to  its  former  efficacy,  whereas  when  the  felt  has  absorbed  a 
great  amount  of  moisture  it  can  be  easily  and  without  danger  re-dried 
and  restored  to  all  its  original  qualities.  After  removal  from  the 
fire  it  should  be  allowed  to  cool  for  one  or  two  hours  before  use. 
These  remarks  are  applicable  to  the  felt  when  actually  damp — other- 
wise it  does  not  require  the  stimulus  of  being  laid  before  the  fire  the 
night  previous  to  shooting,  as  some  sportsmen  have  recommended 
with  regard  to  Schultze's  powder — this  precaution  is  not  required,  and 
therefore  it  would  not  increase  the  efficiency  of  gun-felt. 

As  compared  with  gun-cotton  it  has  the  great  advantage  of 
superior  regularity,  which  is  evidently  obtained  by  the  diversity  of 
the  manufacturing  process.  Gun-cotton  was  toned  down  to  a  safety 
point  by  the  admixture  of  certain  proportions  of  raw  or  unconverted 
fibre,  which,  being  of  different  specific  gravity,  renders  a  perfect 
uniformity  of  mixture  extremely  difficult  to  attain.  On  the  other 
hand,  gun-felt  is  chemically  treated  en  masse  by  various  compounds, 
which,  combined  with  the  process  of  felting,  endue  it  with  the 
desired  properties.  This  principle  seems  to  have  been  partially 
adopted  by  Mr.  Punshon  in  his  patented  gun-cotton  powder,  the 
success  of  which  remains  yet  to  be  proved  by  the  sporting  com- 
munity. In  the  manufacture  of  gun-felt  the  presence  of  any  free 
adherent  acid  is  rendered  impossible  by  the  various  stages  of  the 
process.  It  is  the  free  acid  which  is  the  cause  of  corrosion  in  the 
barrels,  and  also  ignition  of  the  material  at  a  low  temperature.  Gun- 
felt  will  not  ignite  under  a  temperature  of  from  380  to  400  degrees. 
//  has  also  no  fulminating  power.  With  regard  to  its  keeping 
properties  it  leaves  little  to  be  desired,  as  it  has  been  proved  fully  as 
effective  after  three  or  four  years'  keeping  as  when  first  filled  into  the 
cartridge.  With  the  exception  of  gunpowder,  it  is  also  less  affected 
by  damp  than  any  other  of  its  competitors.  As  compared  with  the 
Schultze  powder,  or  wood-dust,  the  raw  material  of  which  is  necessarily 
from  its  varying  densities  of  uncertain  absorbent  power,  the  gun-felt 
has  the  great  advantage  of  having  for  basis  the  very  purest  form  of 
cellulose.  There  is,  however,  a  disadvantage  connected  with  the 
gun-felt  in  that  it  requires  a  special  machine  for  loading.  This  is 
remedied  by  buying  the  felt  ready  filled  into  the  cases,  with  or 
without  shot,  or  by  sending  cases  to  be  filled  at  the  manufactory, 

Smokeless  Explosives  for  Sporting  Guns.         67 

thus  doing  away  with  all  trouble,  and  ensuring  the  loading  being  done 
in  the  best  possible  manner.  Another  point  of  great  importance  is 
that  no  gun  has  been  burst  or  damaged  by  it,  which  is  more  than  can 
be  said  of  any  other  explosive.  With  respect  to  rifle-shooting  it  has 
already  been  proved  very  effective,  and  thoroughly  adapted  for  that 
purpose,  and  we  expect  to  find  it  soon  in  general  use  fof  sporting 
and  other  rifles. 

Reeves's  gun-felt  having  now  been  on  its  trial  among  sportsmen 
for  four  seasons'  shooting,  and  nothing  disparaging  to  it  having 
arisen  from  its  use,  it  may  fairly  be  regarded  as  the  only 
sound  smokeless  explosive  for  sporting  guns.  We  understand  that 
the  inventor  manufactures  it  under  his  own  eye  at  Dark  Mills, 
Brimscombe,  Gloucestershire,  and  that  his  constant  attention  is  given 
to  the  process,  so  as  to  ensure  regularity  of  propellent  force  in  every 
cartridge  sent  out.  This  is  as  it  should  be.  When  companies  under- 
take the  manufacture  of  explosives  they  too  often  seem  only  to 
consider  how  a  profit  is  to  be  made  and  a  dividend  ensured.  As  in 
such  a  case  individual  prestige  is  not  at  stake,  there  is  no  healthy 
stimulus  to  excellence  derivable  from  the  knowledge  that  one's 
efforts  to  give  satisfaction  are  regarded  with  a  critical  and  approving 
eye  by  the  sporting  public.  Here,  however,  the  case  is  different. 
Mr.  Reeves  is  a  sportsman,  as  well  as  an  inventor,  and  he  addresses 
himself  directly  to  the  sporting  publie  from  his  manufactory. 

Who  can  tell  what  the  next  advance  may  be  in  science,  as  applied 
to  sport?  Even  grouse  are  killed  by  strategy,  and  after  the  most 
approved  mode  are  driven  to  the  shooter. 

r  VXX*"S^N^  ■*•>•>*•  X/'"V/'  \/WW' 

F   2 


"Poo  r   T  o  p s  y; 


'T  was  the  first  day  of  my  Christmas  holidays — don't  ask  me 
how  many  years  ago — when,  after  hurrying  through  breakfast, 
I  repaired  to  the  stable-yard  to  meet  that  all-important 
personage  "  Billy,"  our  gamekeeper,  who  was  to  attend  my 
hedge-popping  expeditions  for  the  next  five  weeks  and  three  days — 
bar  Sundays.  Fresh  from  deep,  not  to  say  surreptitious  study  of  the 
works  of  Fenimore  Cooper,  was  I  not  about  to  perform  in  my 
small  way  many  a  "doughty  deed"  of  "derring-do"  (whatever  that 
may  be)  in  the  happy  hunting-grounds  of  the  paternal  acres  ?  Oh, 
bliss  of  expectation  !  Had  I  not  many  a  time  "  last  half,"  in 
visionary  anticipation,  stalked  the  wily  rook,  even  as  the  crafty 
Huron  approaches  his  dusky  enemy  the  Comanche  ?  Had  I 
not  with  untiring  patience  dogged  the  "hops"  of  the  enticing 
blackbird,  till,  in  desperation,  it  flew  out  screaming  close  to  me, 
but,  of  course,  the  wrong  side  of  the  hedge  ?  Ah !  and  many 
another  sporting  dream  had  I  woven  which  I  hoped  to  consummate 
in  that  approaching  Christmas  holiday.  My  first  brilliant  "bag" 
shall  be  accounted  for  in  the  following  short  story  :— 

"  Well,  Billy !  Here  we  are  again ;  have  you  got  the  gun  in 
good  order  ?" 

"Aw!  yes,  zur;  she's  in  caapital  order;  leastwise  'Joe'  mostly 
looks  arter  her." 

Now  "  Joe"  was  the  family  coachman,  to  whose  care  was  entrusted 
my  "single  barrel"  during  my  absence  at  school  He  kept  the 
same  stowed  away  in  a  cupboard  in  the  saddle-room  containing  his 
"  things,"  a  most  miscellaneous  and  odoriferous  "  lot ;"  and,  I  have 
reason  to  believe,  won  wagers  at  "snuffing  candles"  with  it,  from 
strange  "coachies"  on  dinner-party  nights,  when  he  entertained  a 
select  circle  in  his  "  sanctum." 

So  we  repair  to  the  saddle-room,  where  I  look  over  my  favourite 
weapon  as  keenly  as  any  mother  would  her  infant  after  a  five  months' 
absence,  no  chance  of  scratch  or  rust-sppt  escaping  my  scrutiny, 
resulting  in  a  proportionate  cross-questioning  of  "Joe,"  who  inevi- 
tably proves  the  saddle-room  cat  to  be  the  culprit 

"  Well,  Billy,  which  way  shall  we  go  to-day  ?" 

Poor  Topsy.  69 

The  two  "beats"  which  I  worked  with  alternate  and  relentless 
severity  were  either  "The  Hill,"  where  rabbits  were  plentiful  but 
generally  underground,  or  "  down  below,"  where  "  fur"  was  scarcer ; 
but  by  diligently  "follerin'  up"  the  hedgerows,  on  the  Micawber 
principle,  something  in  the  "  feather"  line  worthy  of  my  lead  used 
generally  to  "turn  up."  What  dodgings  after  blackbirds  did  the1 
orchards  afford !  What  breathless  stalks  after  flocks  of  rooks,  red- 
wings, starlings,  or  throstle  cocks  ! — not  to  mention  occasional  un- 
licensed "bangs"  at  wild  covies  or  "  pot-shots"  at  "pussy."  I  think 
"down  below"  was  my  favourite  resort;  it  certainly  "had  the  call" 
on  this  eventful  day. 

Mr.  Billy  having  stowed  away  the  "  munch"  in  his  capacious 
pockets,  and  I  the  various  ammunitions  in  mine,  I  shouldered  the 
"single"  and  marched  out  of  the  back-yard  as  full  of  expectation  as 
only  a  long-legged,  keen,  gun-bitten  schoolboy  can  be  on  the  first 
day  of  his  holidays. 

Quoth  Billy,  as  we  were  passing  the  kennel,  "'Twouldn't  be 
much  harm  to  take  out  '  Topsy*  wi'  us  ;  she's  a  caapital  good  un  to 
stan'  a  moorhen  or  a  rabbut  for  the  matter  o'  that,  and  a  run  Hill  do 
her  good." 

To  which  I  replied,  somewhat  doubtfully  at  heart,  that  I  supposed 
my  father  would  not  mind — that  it  couldn't  do  her  any  harm  ;  so 
perhaps  we  might  as  well  take  her  with  us. 

My  father  happened  to  be  away  from  home  for  a  few  days ;  he 
generally  kept  a  brace  or  leash  of  pointers,  and  at  the  time  I  am 
speaking  of  possessed  a  brace  of  own  sisters,  "  Dolly"  and  "  Topsy" 
by  name,  who,  for  beauty  and  performance,  were  well  known  to 
every  sportsman  in  the  neighbourhood.  I  need  hardly  say  that 
he  was  extremely  proud  of  them,  and  was  very  particular  about  any 
person  hunting  them  in  his  absence.  However,  he  was  from  home, 
and  perhaps — now  I  was  six  months  older  than  last  holidays — he 
would  not  object  to  my  taking  them  out ;  anyhow  there  could  be  no 
harm  in  taking  one  out;  so  the  kennel  door  was  unfastened,  and 
"  Dolly"  being  repulsed,  forth  sprang  "  Topsy,"  as  jet  black  and 
shining  a  beauty  as  her  original  namesake. 

And  now  we  are  off  down  the  lane  to  the  first  rough  grass-field, 
where  we  propose  to  begin  operations.  We  scramble  over  the  hedge 
and  strike  across  it.  "  Hold  up,  Topsy  !"  And  away  she  races,  head 
up  and  her  stern  lashing  her  flanks ;  "Right  about !"  as  she  comes  to 
the  hedge,  and  again  she  sweeps  by  us,  evoking  an  admiring  question 
from  Billy :  "  Daun't  she  just  about  get  auver  the  ground  ?"  Mark  ! 
there  go  some  birds  !    How  wild  the  beggars  are  !   Let's  see  whether 

70  The  Gentleman! s  Magazine. 

she  will  wind  them  next  time  she  crosses  !  Ah !  did  you  see  her 
swing  round?  There  she  stands,  a  picture  of  elegance  in  ebony 
that  a  sportsman  would  tramp  five  miles  to  look  at !  Too  late,  old 
girl;  they're  gone  !  which  fact  she  soon  ascertains  for  herself;  for 
she  draws  on,  potters  for  a  moment  where  they  rose,  and  is  off  again 
at  score  to  seek  for  a  fresh  quarry.  Here  we  are  in  a  large  field, 
through  which  circulates  the  brook  that  found  me  in  piscatorial 
amusement  in  those  days  for  the  whole  summer  holidays.  (In  these 
degenerate  days  I  can't  stand  an  average  of  a  trout  and  a  half  per 
diem  under  a  July  sun.)  Also  in  winter  did  it  afford  me  sport  with 
the  moorhens. 

"  Thur's  the  bitch  a-stood  again,  zur,  by  the  river !  That's  a 
moorhen,  I'll  warrant,"  says  Billy.  With  cocked  gun  and  palpi- 
tating heart  I  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  stream.  That  wretched 
bird,  instead  of  flying  off  in  a  respectable  fashion  when  it  was  poked 
out  of  a  bush  on  the  bank,  must  needs  pop  into  the  water  and  swim 
and  dive  in  various  directions ;  whereupon  Billy  (like  most  of  his 
tribe,  utterly  regardless  of  a  dog's  "  form"  when  master  isn't  by)  by 
many  halloo-ins  and  other  canine  encouragements  induced  poor 
Topsy  to  change  her  vocation  for  that  of  a  water  spaniel.  Between 
them  they  eventually  induced  the  bird  to  seek  safety  in  flight,  and  it 
came  "  scattering"  up  the  stream  towards  me.  I  was  standing  a  few 
yards  back  from  the  edge  of  the  brook,  which  ran  between  rather  high 
banks.  I  took  aim  at  the  bird  as  it  flew  along,  just  above  the  bank ; 
when,  just  as  I  had  pressed  the  trigger  beyond  recall  (all  sportsmen 
know  the  sensation),  to  my  horror  poor  Topsy  clambered  up  out  of 
the  brook  between  me  and  the  bird. 

Bang !  A  red  gash  in  her  side,  just  behind  the  shoulder — a 
howl,  a  splash,  and  I  ran  forward  with  a  cry  of  horror.  The  disturbed 
eddying  water,  with  a  large  blood-stain  in  it,  showed  where  she  had 
sunk,  stone-dead,  in  some  four  feet  of  water.     I  never  saw  her  again. 

Pity  me,  kind  reader !  I  believe  I  burst  into  tears,  and  felt  half 
inclined  to  throw  myself  in  after  her.  How  could  I  ever  face  my 
father  ?  Oh  !  what  a  miserable  day  that  was  ;  never  shall  I*  forget  it 
We  slunk  away  from  the  river.  I  did  not  dare  to  go  home,  for  fear 
of  exciting  surprise  and  questions  as  to  my  unusually  early  return. 
Poor  Billy  was  almost  as  "down"  as  I  was.  He  foresaw  the  sack 
for  a  certainty,  for  taking  out  the  dog  without  his  master's  leave.  So 
we  wandered  about  the  fields  in  a  purposeless  way,  exhausting  the 
time  in  mutual  explanations  and  recriminations  till  the  short  January 
day  began  to  close  in,  when  we  edged  away  towards  home.  We 
passed  the  kennel  again.     I  felt  like  a  murderer.    There  was  "  Dolly" 

Poor  Topsy.  71 

perched  on  the  coping-stone  of  the  low  kennel  wall,  wagging  her  tail 
and  expectant  of  the  sister,  who  was  never  to  sweep  across  the 
"stubs"  with  her  again.  I  sneaked  into  the  house  by  a  private 
entrance,  fearful  of  meeting -any  of  the  servants,  who  were  sure  to 
ask  me  what  J  had  shot  Who  could  I  go  to  in  my  misery  but 
my  mother?  I  found  her  in  her  bedroom  dressing  for  dinner,  # 
and  there  I  gulped  out  my  story.  Poor  soul !  she  was  terribly 
grieved  about  it :  she  said  that  she  really  believed  my  father  cared 
almost  as  much  about  those  dogs  as  he  did  about  his  children ;  and 
that  only  a  week  ago  he  had  refused  twenty  guineas — a  fabulous  sum 
in  those  days — for  the  very  dog  I  had  destroyed.  However,  she  did 
her  best  to  console  me,  as  most  mothers — bless  their  kind  hearts  ! — 
always  do  when  a  fellow  is  in  trouble.  We  agreed  that  we  had  better 
break  the  sad  news  to  my  father  before  he  returned  home;  there 
would  be  just  time  for  a  letter  to  reach  him  before  he  started.  So 
my  mother  wrote  to  him  then  and  there,  making  out,  no  doubt,  as 
strong  a  case  as  she  could  for  her  poor  boy.  How  wretched  I  was 
during  the  two  following  days  !  I  was  ashamed  to  look  anybody  in 
the  face ;  and  what  a  state  of  "  nerves"  I  was  in  as  the  hour  of  my 
father's  return  drew  nigh.  I  watched  him  drive  into  the  stable  yard, 
and  jump  down  from  the  dog-cart,  as  if  in  the  best  of  spirits.  I  had 
determined  to  go  down  and  meet  him  in  a  certain  semi-obscure 
passage ;  so,  when  I  heard  his  voice  (how  cheery  it  sounded !)  in  the 
servants'  hall,  I  ran  down  the  back  stairs,  and  was  about  to  blurt  out 
a  little  speech  I  had  prepared  to  mitigate  his  wrath,  when  he  took 
the  wind  out  of  my  sails  by  a  great  slap  on  my  shoulder,  a  kiss  on  my 
forehead,  and  a  hearty,  "  Well,  Bob,  my  boy,  how  are  you  ?  How  the 
boy's  grown  !     Come  along  and  let's  have  a  look  at  you  in  the  light." 

A  qualm  shot  through  me.  "  He's  never  received  mother's  letter  ! 
Oh,  how  terrible  !  I  shall  have  to  tell  him."  I  managed  to  shuffle 
off  somehow,  and  ran  up  and  broke  my  fears  to  my  mother.  She 
could  give  me  but  little  consolation,  but  promised  to  ask  him  and  let 
me  know  before  dinner.  Oh  !  what  a  relief  did  that  little  nod  and 
half  smile  of  hers  afford  me  when  I  slipped  into  the  drawing-room, 
just  before  dinner  was  announced. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  got  your  letter !  Please  never  to  mention  the 
poor  dog's  name  to  me  again— or  to  Bob  either."  That  was  my 
father's  answer  to  my  mother's  question. 

For  many  years  the  subject  of  pointers  was  carefully  avoided  in 
our  family  circle ;  and,  though  at  last  my  father  broke  the  ice  himself 
when  "  yarning"  to  me  about  his  old  favourites,  and  forgave  me  over 
again  in  ,  his  look,  yet  to  this  day  we  all  drop  our  voices  to  a 
respectful  whisper  when  we  make  mention  of  "  Poor  Topsy." 

.  Life  in  London. 


T  is  true,  ev£ry  word  of  it.  I  set  it  down  for  Christmas 
because  the  peculiar  grace  of  the  season  seems  appropriate 
to  the  incident.  It  is  a  story  of  modern  heroism.  Poets  are 
apt  to  look  upon  the  age  of  chivalry  as  a  past  and  almost 
forgotten  time.  With  their  imaginary  history  of  great  deeds  they  mix 
Scandinavian  myths  and  Teutonic  folk-lore.  For  nobler  themes  I 
commend  them  to  the  modern  history  of  coal-getting,  to  the  newspaper 
records  of  the  late  gales  on  our  unprotected  coasts,  to  the  biographies 
of  inventors  and  travellers,  to  the  everyday  life  of  London,  to  the 
"  simple  annals  of  the  poor."  Though  he  is  "  born  in  sin  and  s^hapen 
in  iniquity,"  there  is  more  in  man  of  the  angel  than  the  devil.  His 
instincts  are  good,  his  impulses  noble ;  given  the  choice  of  vice  or 
virtue  in  the  abstract,  my  belief  is  that  he  would  invariably  be  found 
on  the  side  of  virtue.  Some  of  the  noblest  acts  of  heroism  occur 
among  the  lowest  stratum  of  society.  The  poor  is  the  poor  man's 
friend.  Missionaries  in  the  wilds  of  East  London  could  give  you 
some  startling  illustrations  of  the  truth  of  the  proverb. 

But  this  exordium  on  modern  heroism  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
It  is  always  difficult  to  commence  a  story.  When  you  have  started  an 
introduction  and  are  fairly  launched  into  theorising  and  moralising,  it 
is  far  more  difficult  to  stop  than  to  go  on.  If  you  are  courageous  you 
will  suddenly  pull  up  the  moment  this  thought  crosses  your  mind, 
and  go  straight  into  your  subject.     Thus  : — 

I  called  upon  a  journalist  and  dramatic  writer  the  other  day  in 
St.  John's  Wood,  on  my  way  to  town. 

"  If  you  will  wait  ten  minutes,"  he  said,  "  I  will  drive  you  as  far 
as  Bond  Street;  I  am  going  to  take  the  baby  to  B *s,  the  oculist" 

"Why?"  I  asked,  "is  anything  the  matter?" 

"  No,  nothing  very  particular." 
.  At  this  juncture  the  baby  came  romping  into  the  room.     She  was 
a  pretty,  dark-eyed  child,  and  had  a  long  story  to  tell  about  Guy 
Fawkes  at  the  Zoo. 

"  Yes,"  said  her  father.  "  Now  you  will  go  to  Bertha  and  have 
your  things  put  on  for  a  drive." 

Life  in  London.  73 

The  little  one  scampered  away,  and  my  friend  proceeded  to  answer 
my  question. 

"  You  have  noticed,"  he  said,  "  that  I  have  a  sort  of  cast  in  my 
eye — some  people  call  it  a  squint." 

"  Your  eyes  are  peculiar,"  I  said  ;  "  but  you  see  well." 

"Yes,  I  have  very  good  sight.  That  is  not  the  point  Baby's  < 
eyes  (or  one  of  them,  at  all  events)  show  symptoms  of  the  defect 
you  notice  in  mine.  Her  mother,  as  you  know,  is  abroad,  and  I  am 
sending  the  child's  portrait  to  her  as  a  Christmas  present.  The 
photographs  give  evidence  of  the  peculiarity  you  notice  in  my  eyes  ; 
the  child  will  squint,  I  fear,  if  something  cannot  be  done  to  check  the 
disposition  of  the  eye  in  that  direction." 

"I  notice  a  defect,  now  you  draw  my  attention  to  the  child's 
expression  ;  but  it  is  very  slight" 

"  It  will  grow ;  it  may  be  hereditary  ;  I  am  going  to  submit  her  to 
examination ;  a  squint  in  a  man  is  a  matter  of  no  moment ;  but  in  a 
woman  the  drawback  is  serious." 

We  drove  to  the  oculist's,  my  friend,  grandmama,  and  baby. 
On  our  way  we  looked  in  at  a  morning  rehearsal  of  a  piece  in  which 
my  friend  was  interested.  The  transition  from  the  London  streets  to 
the  dirty  daylight  of  the  theatre  and  back  again  to  the  prim,  proper 
door  of  the  fashionable  oculist  left  a  curious  impression  on  my 
mind.  My  friend  and  his  child  entered  the  house.  I  preferred  to 
wait  outside  and  keep  grandmama  company.  We  sat  there  for  an 
hour,  watching  the  people  go  to  and  fro  in  the  wet  All  sorts  of 
men  and  women  went  in  and  out  of  the  oculist's  house,  in  all  kinds 
of  spectacles ;  we  speculated  freely  upon  their  condition ;  we  felt  a 
deep  interest  in  a  graceful  young  lady  who  was  led  by  her  father ; 
there  was  one  face  which  almost  appalled  us — it  was  blue,  like  the 
lover's  in  "  Poor  Miss  Finch."  On  the  other  side  of  the  way  was  a 
Court  millinery  establishment ;  a  wedding  party  came  there  to  try  on 
bonnets  ;  for  a  time  they  entertained  us  mightily,  but  our  mirth  was 
destroyed  by  a  funeral  which  crept  past  us  in  the  rain  and  sleet,  for  we 
knew  how  some  one  else  would  presently  meet  the  same  procession 
trotting  home,  the  mutes  a  little  the  worse  for  drink,  the  coachmen 
ciacking  their  whips  gaily. 

By-and-by  the  oculist's  door  opened,  and  father  and  child  came  out. 

"Take  her  home,  grandma,"  said  my  friend,  tenderly  lifting  the 
little  one  into  the  brougham. 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  "  asked  grandma  anxiously. 

"No  harm  at  present — she  is  all  right" 

Grandma  and  baby  went  joyfully  home ;  Pater  and  myself  strolled 
down  Regent  Street  under  a  reeking  umbrella. 

74  The  Gentlemafis  Magazine. 

"  What  did  B say  ?"  I  asked. 

"That  the  disorder  is  hereditary;  by  examining  my  eye  he  could 
tell  exactly  what  would  be  required  in  baby's  case." 

"  And  what  is  required  ?  " 

"  An  operation." 

"A  serious  one?" 

"  It  will  be  necessary  to  cut  one  of  the  muscles  of  the  eye." 

"  You  did  not  say  so  to  grandma." 

"  No ;  she  is  very  nervous  ;  it  is  not  worth  while  frightening  her, 
and  she  has  an  idea  that  the  eye  must  be  taken  out  and  put  in 
again,  or  some  such  nonsense  of  that  kind." 

"  You  seem  a  little  downhearted,  nevertheless,"  I  said. 

"Do  I?" 

"  Yes.  Now  tell  me  all  about  it ;  you  are  concealing  something 
from  me." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  passed,  certainly.   I  said  to  B if  he  could 

tell  what  was  the  matter  with  baby  by  examining  my  eyes,  he  might 
try  his  operation  on  me  first,  and  if  I  liked  it  and  it  was  quite  satis- 
factory, then  baby  could  be  treated  afterwards." 

"  If  you  liked  it!"  I  said. 

"  It  will  not  matter  if  he  spoils  me,  but  it  would  break  my  wife's 
heart  if  he  were  unsuccessful  with  baby.  It  would  also  be  a  lasting 
sorrow  to  me,  and,  moreover,  I  don't  know  what  your  English  oculists 
can  do ;  if  I  were  in  New  York,  look  you,  I  should  know  better  what 
I  was  about" 

"That  is  the  way  with  you  Americans,"  I  said.  "You  think  nothing 
great  can  be  done  outside  New  York — you  are  mistaken." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  my  friend,  laconically.  "  B says  both  my 

eyes  are  wrong." 

"You  are  an  odd  fellow." 

"With  odd  eyes." 

"  What  did  the  oculist  think  of  your  suggestion  ?" 

"  Seemed  a  little  surprised,  but  it  is  just  like  my  luck ;  if  I  were  to 
go  with  a  fellow  to  have  his  arm  amputated,  the  operator  would  swear 
something  was  the  matter  with  my  leg  and  have  it  off.  I  am  to  go 
to  B 's  on  Monday  at  one." 

"What  for?" 

"  The  operation  on  my  eyes." 

This  conversation  was  on  Friday.  On  Saturday  and  Sunday  I 
thought  a  great  deal  of  my  friend.  On  Monday  I  called  and  asked 
him  to  let  me  accompany  him. 

"  No,"  he  said  firmly.     "  I  will  not  hear  of  it ;  don't  think  you 

Life  in  London.  75 

could  stand  it.   B said  he  should  give  me  chloroform;  no,  H 

will  call  for  me." 

It  did  not  occur  to  me  even  then  that  the  operation  was  anything 
more  than  an  ordinary  one,  though  delicate  and  perhaps  painful ;  but 
on  Sunday  night  a  sort  of  instinct  prompted  me  to  send  a  note  to  Ivy 
Lodge  to  say  that  I  should  call  at  twelve.  My  messenger  returned. 
He  could  not  open  the  lodge  gates.  On  Monday  a  rush  of  business 
letters  carried  me  early  into  the  City,  and  only  on  Tuesday  did  I  learn 
what  had  taken  place.  My  friend  had  undergone  the  most  supreme  of 
all  the  wonderful  operations  on  the  eye.  The  oculist  had  taken  out 
both  his  eyes  and  replaced  them,  after  cutting  the  particular  muscle  or 

sinew  which  had  not  worked  perfectly.   My  friend  H was  present 

during  the  operation.     Going  home  afterwards,  he  had  to  lead  the 
American  journalist  up  the  garden  path.    Grandma  saw  them  coming. 

"Ah,  poor  Stephen  !"  she  said.  "I  thought  he  was  not  well  this 
morning ;  he  ate  no  breakfast,  and  he  has  been  taking  spirits  some- 
where ;  spirits  never  agree  with  him." 

My  friend  staggered  into  the  house  under  the  stigma  of  spirits, 
kissed  the  baby,  covered  up  his  -eyes,  went  to  bed,  and  lay  broad 
awake  nearly  all  night,  fighting  off  the  lingering  influences  of  chloro- 

During  the  last  few  weeks  he  has  been  going  about  London  with 

bloodshot  eyes,  but  tolerably  well,  thank  goodness.   Brother  clubmen 

ask  him  how  he  is ;  they  hear  he  has  been  ill.     He  tells  them  he  has 

been  poorly — "  Cold  in  his  head ;  eyes  been  a  little  out  of  order ;  all 

'  right  now,  thank  you  ! " 

If  this  is  not  an  incident  of  self-denial  and  true  nobility  of  nature 
worthy  -of  narration  at  the  Christmas  hearth,  I  know  notRing  of 
human  life. 

.  -v^  -+,s  >*s  - 

Tennyson's   Last  Idyll. 


>HE  verdict  formed  by  the  critics  on  the  first  appearance 
of  Mr.  Tennyson's  "  Gareth  and  Lynette  n  was  not  in  the 
mass  favourable  to  this  last  of  the  Arthurian  Idylls. 
Some  blamed  it,  because  it  was  Tennysonian )  others, 
tired  of  Idylls,  because  it  was  another  Idyll ;  and  others,  not  tired  of 
the  Idylls,  because  it  was  unequal  in  their  eyes  to  those  other  songs 
which  have  already  sung,  in  lays  that  will  outlast  all  modern  poetry : — 

The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  the  world  holds  record. 

The  most  prejudiced,  however,  of  Tennyson's  critics  will  scarcely 
venture  to  deny  him  the  gift  of  that  most  accurate  measurement  of 
his  own  powers  which  has  enabled  him  to  prove  precisely  what  he 
could,  and  what  he  could  not,  achieve  in  that  art  wherein  he  has 
displayed  a  perfection  of  matured  skill  and  of  exquisite  taste  in  the 
elaboration  of  language  and  legend,  given  to  none  of  his  contempo- 
raries, and  to  few  of  his  predecessors. 

In  the  Idylls,  and  in  the  Idylls  alone,  Tennyson  found  precisely  the 
sphere*  most  congenial  to  his  taste,  the  most  suited  to  the  mould  of 
his  plastic  genius,  and  from  the  first  publication  of  the  Idylls  the 
Laureate  may  date  the  registering  of  his  name  in  the  highest  class  of 
our  poets.  Is  it,  then,  to  be  wondered  at  that  a  poet  should  go  on 
adding  to  a  legendary  epic  which  was  received  with  passionate  accla- 
mations by  the  nation  it  enchanted,  and  that  lifted  him  at  once  to 
the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  temple  of  fame?  But,  on  artistic  grounds 
alone,  the  extension  of  the  Arthurian  epic  which  came  before  us 
in  the  earliest  Idyll  is  amply  justified  by  the  scenes  and  characters 
superadded  at  each  successive  stage  of  its  graduated  development 
An  epic  lacking  a  full  and  varied  presentation  of  the  greatest  phe- 
nomena of  our  human  nature  on  a  grand  scale,  with  its  diversities  of 
temper,  lineaments,  functions,  and  fancies,  lacks  that  element  which 
alone  can  round  it  to  perfection. 

The  superadded  characters  and  situations  given  us  in  the  "Holy 
Grail,"  the  "  Last  Tournament,"  and  "  Gareth  and  Lynette,"  though 

Tenny sorts  Last  Idyll.  7 7 

copies  of  nothing  already  given  by  the  poet,  notwithstanding  their 
own  distinctive  independency  and  originality,  have  yet  in  them  a 
certain  analogical  relationship  to  the  former  portion  of  the  epic,  so 
that  we  accept  them  at  once  as  members  of  the  same  family,  marked 
by  a  family  likeness,  and  welcome  them  all  the  more  as  playing  parts 
and  exhibiting  phases  of  character  requisite  to  make  the  Arthurian 
epic  a  true  mirror  of  Arthurian  chivalry  in  the  brightest  as  in  the 
darkest  of  its  phases.  A  Sir  Percivale,  a  Sir  Galahad,  a  Dagenot, 
and  a  Gareth  and  Lynette  were  as  absolutely  necessary  as  an  Elaine, 
a  Vivien,  and  a  Geraint,  to  picture  forth  the  story  of  the  Table 
Round,  and  the  days  of  the  blameless  King,  not  merely  in  fidelity  to 
the  artistic  requirements  of  the  past,  but  in  fidelity  to  the  general 
consensus  of  the  legends  which  echo  the  voices  of  that  far  off  past. 

Scarcely  by  any  poet  has  Tennyson  been  surpassed  in  the  extremely 
difficult  combination  of  purity  and  intensity  of  affection  in  his  heroes 
and  heroines,  and  by  few  poets  in  the  equally  difficult  combination  of 
force  with  delicacy in  the  delineation  of  character.  In  "Gareth  and 
Lynette,"  the  crown  and  climax  of  the  Arthurian  Idylls,  the  Laureate 
opens  up  a  new  vein  of  characterisation,  and  works  it  out  with  more 
than  his  old  power  and  skill.  To  preserve  the  central  unity  of  this 
grand  Arthurian  epic,  two  of  the  old  characters — King  Arthur  and 
Lancelot,  "the  peerless  knight" — are  again  brought  before  our  charmed 
presence,  but  they  come  clearer  and  nearer  to  us  than  ever  they  did 
before,  more  distinct  in  outline,  more  palpable  in  form,  more  coloured 
with  the  living  colours  of  life,  more  human  in  their  action,  and  less 
shadowy  phantoms  of  a  shadowy  past  Arthur  at  Almesbury,  "moving 
ghost-like  to  his  doom,"  with  the  morning  vapours  rolling  round  him, 
is  scarcely  so  clear  and  palpable  to  the  eye  of  our  apprehension  as 
Arthur  now  at  Camelot  "  delivering  doom  "  and  redressing  wrong, 
sitting  like  a  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  in  the  long  vaulted  judgment 
hall,  before  the  listening  eyes  (evidently  Virgil's  "  tacitus  luminibus  ") 
of  those  tall  knights  that  ranged  about  his  throne. 

Although,  according  to  the  fine  distincfion  drawn  by  the  poet — 

That  Lancelot  was  the  first  in  tournament 
And  Arthur  mightiest  in  the  battle-field, 

yet,  of  the  King  as  a  warrior,  we  see  nothing  in  the  present  Idyll, 
and  it  is  but  very  little  we  see  of  Lancelot's — 

Skilled  spear,  the  wonder  of  the  world. 

Here,  more  than  hitherto,  Lancelot  foregoes  his  own  advantage 
and  his  own  fame,  more  peerless  than  hitherto  in  supporting  the 
weakness  of  the  weak,  and  encouraging  the  growth  of  all  that  is  pure 

78  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

and  noble-natured  in  others ;  and  this,  for  the  first  time,  without 
inconsistency,  for  as  yet  his  sin  with  Guinevere  has  not  been  sinned, 
and  his  loyalty  to  his  King  has  not  yet  been  tarnished  by  his  disloyal 
love  to  his  Queen. 

In  the  Gareth  and  Lynette,  the  poet's  two  latest  creations  of 
character,  we  have  two  essentially  new  types  of  humanity.  Gareth, 
the  boy  knight,  is  a  Geraint  without  the  base  suspicions  of  the 
jealous  Geraint,  a  sinless  Arthur  without  Arthur's  cold  and  passive 
sinlessness,  a  Lancelot  without  the  years  and  skill  and  fame  of 
Lancelot,  and  happily  without  that  "  faith  unfaithful "  which  "  kept 
him  falsely  true,"  but  not  without  the  perfection  of  gentleness  that 
swayed  the  every  mood  and  manner  of  that  "  peerless  knight"  A 
lovelier  type  of  young  chivalry — of  the  tenderest  grace  in  the  man- 
liest of  manhood,  strength  of  hand  and  heart — the  plastic  mould  of 
Tennyson's  imagination  never  bodied  forth  than  that  of  Gareth,  all 
defiance  as  he  is  to  dangers  the  most  terrible,  all  fondness  and  all 
forbearance  as  he  proves  himself  ever  to  the  damsel  whose  battles  he 
fought,  whose  eyes  darted  nothing  but  scorn,  whose  tongue  wagged 
only  to  wound  him.  Wherever  we  see  Gareth  we  can  see  him  only 
as  a  vision  of  what  is  lovely  and  endearing  in  human  character.  At 
home,  hovering  around  his  mother's  chair,  with  the  sharp  spur  of 
fame  pricking  him  to  deeds  of  fame  afar,  he  is  still  the  tender,  loving, 
"best  loved"  son  of  his  loved  and  loving  mother.  Gareth,  as 
"  kitchen  knave  "  in  the  King's  kitchen,  doing  the  lowliest  of  service 
with  an  easy  grace,  pure  of  speech,  bearing  the  burden  of  the  weak, 
gentle  and  kindly  to  the  lowest,  wins  every  heart  and  draws  on 
him  the  admiring  eyes  of  Lancelot  and  the  King.  Gareth,  sent  on 
the  quest,  scorned  and  cudgelled  by  a  woman's  sharp  and  bitter 
tongue,  only  returns  good  deeds  for  evil  words,  and  holds — 

He  scarce  is  knight,  yea,  but  half  man,  nor  meet 
To  fight  for  gentle  damsel,  he,  who  lets 
His  heart  be  stirred  with  any  girlish  heat, 
At  any  gentle  damsel's  waywardness. 

Lynette's  pride,  petulance,  and  peevishness  stand  out  in  singular 
contrast  to  the  sweet  and  tender  patience  of  Elaine  and  Enid,  the 
ministering  angels  of  Geraint  and  Lancelot;  but  much  must  be  said  in 
palliation  of  a  haughty  damsel  with  a  well-developed  organ  of  petu- 
lance, who  comes  to  Arthur's  Court  to  ask  for  a  Lancelot,  and  gets, 
as  if  in  scorn,  "  a  kitchen  knave,"  as  she  deems,  for  her  knight  Her 
heart  is  none  the  less  truly  a  true  woman's  heart  How  tenderly  it  is 
touched  at  last  by  the  unfailing  gentleness  of  the  gentle  knight,  whose 

Tennyson  s  Last  Idyll.  79 

"  abounding  pleasure"  it  was  to  fight  so  hard  and  suffer  so  much  as 
her  champion  !  How  frankly  does  she  own  at  last  the  complete  con- 
quest of  gallantry  and  gentleness  as  she  pours  out  those  tender  words 
of  mingled  confession  and  contrition,  of  simplest  but  most  intense 

passion : — 

Sound  sleep  be  thine !  sound  cause  to  sleep  hast  thou  ! 

Wake  lusty  !     Seem  I  not  as  tender  to  him 
As  any  mother  ?    Ay,  but  such  a  one 
As  all  day  long  hath  rated  at  her  child 
And  vext  his  day,  but  blesses  him  asleep. 

It  is  not  often  that  poets  spend  their  music  in  descriptions  of  the 
nasal  appendages  of  their  heroes  or  heroines,  as  Tennyson  has  done, 
not  without  reason,  in  the  case  of  Lynette  : — 

And  lightly  was  her  slender  nose 
Tip-tilted y  like  (he  petal  of  a  flower. 

It  is  a  mistake,  however,  to  assert,  as  some  of  the  poet's  most 

recent  critics  have  asserted,  that  our  best  poets  never  condescend 

to  such  descriptions  ;  for  in  Chaucer's  portraiture  of  the  Prioress  we 

read : — 

Hire  nose  streightj  hire  eyen  grey  as  glass. 

Then  in  Wordsworth  we  have  the  mild  periphrases — 

Black  hair  and  vivid  eye,  and  meagre  cheek  : 
His  prominent  feature  like  an  eagle's  beak. 

The  description  of  the  nose  in  the  portrait  of  Lynette  is,  we 
conceive,  an  attempt  to  express,  by  an  outward  and  visible  sign,  the 
inward  spirit  of  petulance  and  peevishness  which  plays  so  large  a 
part  in  the  development  of  her  character.  In  this  assumed  harmony 
between  psychology  and  physiognomy,  Tennyson,  we  believe,  is  at 
perfect  harmony  with  himself  and  with  the  findings  of  science  and 
experience.     The  bard  that  sees,  with  the  eye  of  science,  in  the  round 

face : — 

A  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolishness, 

and  sees  a  "  noble-natured  "  breed  in  : — 

Broad  brows  and  fair,  a  fluent  hair  and  fine, 
High  nose,  a  nostril  large  and  fine,  and  hands 
Large,  fair,  and  fine — 

so  close  an  observer  and  painter  of  nature  is  not  likely  to  forget  so 
characteristic  a  symbol  of  petulance  as  "le  nez  retrousse"  in  a  heroine 
so  marked  for  petulance — who 

Nipt  her  slender  nose 

With  petulant  thumb  and  finger,  shrilling  "  Hence !  " 

80  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

The  painters  and  sculptors  of  classical  antiquity  long  ago  antici- 
pated Tennyson  in  making  the  expression  of  temper  and  indignation 
lie  chiefly  in  the  conformation  of  the  nose,  and  the  most  represen- 
tative writers  of  the  modern  French  school  of  physiognomy  have 
regarded  "  le  nez  retrousse'  "  in  woman  as  an  index  of  wit,  piquancy, 
animation,  as  well  as  of  petulance,  though  we  think  Marmontel  goes 
a  trifle  too  far  with  his  celebrated  dictum  "  Un  petit  nez  retrousse' 
renvers  les  lois  d'un  empire." 

In  connection  with  the  ethical  treatment  of  the  subject,  we  may 
remark  that  no  other  Idyll  presents  so  many  moral  lessons  in  those 
short,  pithily-condensed  lines,  so  handy  for  quotation,  which  remind 
us  of  the  gnomic  verses  of  Virgil  and  Sophocles — the  purest  poets  of 
antiquity.  Take,  for  example,  the  following  gems,  which  reflect  at 
once  the  rays  of  genius  at  its  brightest,  and  of  moral  beauty  at  its 
best : — : 

Man  am  I  grown,  man's  work  must  I  do. 
The  thrall  in  person  may  htfree  in  soul. 
Accursed  who  strikes,  nor  lets  his  hand  be  seen. 

That  Tennyson  should  naturally  endeavour  to  give  an  archaic 
colouring  to  his  work  by  an  archaic  phraseology  is  no  matter  of 
surprise,  though  we  cannot  but  regret  that  he  has  carried  the 
endeavour  beyond  all  legitimate  bounds  by  the  frequent  use  of  so 
many  obsolete  and  obscure  terms,  much  to  the  mystification  of  his 
readers,  and  to  the  mistiness  of  his  own  meaning.  This  we  hold  to 
be  the  most  patent  and  flagrant  fault  of  a  poem  which  to  us  is  a 
garden  of  delight,  abounding  and  superabounding  in  flowers  and 
fruits,  the  fairest  and  the  sweetest  to  the  taste  of  the  educated 
intellect  of  England. 

The  Potter  of  Tours. 

LACE  for  the  man  who  bears  the  world  1 
Not  he  who  rules  it  from  gilded  throne, 
A  puppet  made  by  Fate  alone, 
Nor  he  who  would  float,  wide  unfurled, 
The  flag  of  ruin,  dealing  death — 
But  he  who,  scorning  common  praise, 
Hath  shown  the  world  heroic  ways, 
And  trod  them  first,  though  with  dying  breath, 
v    Looking  beyond  the  present  pain, 
And  seeing  held  in  the  hands  of  Time 
The  crown  of  genius,  won  again 
By  soul  undaunted  of  line  sublime. 

The  potter  of  Tours  was  at  work  one  day, 
But  his  eye  had  lost  its  lustrous  ray — 
Despair  looked  in  at  the  open  door, 
Casting  his  shadow  athwart  the  floor, 
And  the  potters  heart  was  sunk  in  gloom. 
Within  the  walls  of  the  lowly  room 
Knowledge  had  grown  that  men  would  prize, 
For  to  the  patient  spirit  came 
Art  pregnant  with  immortal  fame — 
Solutions  of  deep  mysteries  : 
His  deeds  were  wafted  forth  of  men, 
And  the  marvel  grew  that  one  so  poor 
Had  e'en  the  courage  to  endure 
Such  scoffs,  such  jeers,  such  toil  and  pain. 
Yet  though  the  couriers  that  wait 
To  bruit  abroad  all  lofty  deeds, 
Had  hover d  o'er  him  in  his  needs, 
And  borne  away  to  palace  gate 
Hi6  name,  Avisseau ;  he  who  claimed 
The  title  kings  and  savans  named 
With  wonder,  pallid  by  despair, 
Sank  reeling  backward  upon  his  chair. 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873. 

S2  The  Gentleman9 s  Magazine. 

Three  hundred  years  had  passed  away 

Since  Palissy,  who  wrought  in  clay, 

Had  died,  and  carried  to  the  grave 

The  secret  none  could  read  and  save. 

But  he,  the  ceramist  of  Tours, 

Had  sworn  the  tomb  should  not  immure 

Science  for  ever,  and  had  brought 

By  his  own  skill  and  toilsome  thought 

The  buried  treasure  back  to  earth. 

Yet  his  success  was  little  worth, 

He  said  to  himself,  when  still  there  lay 

A  greater  knowledge  far  away. 

"  Ah,  could  I  buy  one  piece  of  gold 

With  a  whole  cupful  of  my  blood!" 

He  cried — though  all  his  goods  were  sold — 

And  loving  eyes  with  tears  bedewed 

Looked  up  in  his.     One  moment  sad, 

His  wife  gazed  on  her  wedding  ring, 

Then  drew  it  off  with  gesture  glad, 

And  held  the  little  sacred  thing 

Before  her  husband — "  Tis  our  own  : 

Then  take  the  gold,  and  melt  it  down  ! " 

The  vision  of  past  happy  years, 

With  joys  and  sorrows,  smiles  and  tears, 

Obscured  his  purpose,  but  the  best 

Of  all  his  knowledge  was  the  love 

That  such  high  sacrifice'  could  prove. 

He  clasped  her  sobbing  to  his  breast, 

And  pushed  the  talisman  away : 

But  she,  a  woman,  had  her  way. 

Over  the  crucible  he  stood, 

That  seemed  nigh  consecrate  with  blood, 

Clammy  through  fear  both  brow  and  palm, 

As,  aspen-like,  he  strove  for  calm  : 

Then  like  a  criminal,  at  last, 

The  time  of  agony  being  past, 

He  sought  his  doom — and  with  swift  glance 

He  knew  that  he  alone  did  hold 

The  secret  of  enamelled  gold. 

A  change  came  o'er  his  countenance  : 

"  Forgive  me,  wife,"  he  fainting  cried  ; 

She,  nobly  clinging  to  his  side, 

The  Potter  of  Tours,  83 

Rejoined,  "  Forgive  thee !  Yes,  with  mine 
God's  blessing  went,  and  both  are  thine  ! " 

And  thus  the  reign  of  science  speeds 
From  age  to  age  by  doughty  deeds ; 
One  labours  that  the  rest  may  gain 
Increase  of  good,  with  less  of  pain. 
So  wisdom's  torch,  that  must  expire 
If  genius  fail,  is  passed  along 
By  cunning  art  and  poet's  song ; 
And  higher  still,  and  ever  higher, 
Its  flames  arise,  as  men  are  led 
To  Him  who  formed  the  germ  of  thought, 
Which,  being  in  the  darkness  wrought, 
Brings  forth  the  living  from  the  dead. 

George  Smith. 

g  a 


The  Smithfield  Club  Show. 


She's  long  in  her  face,  she's  fine  in  her  horn, 
She'll  quickly  get  fat  without  cake  or  corn  ; 
She's  clean  in  her  jaws,  and  full  in  her  chine, 
She's  heavy  in  flank,  and  wide  in  her  loin. 

She's  broad  in  her  ribs,  and  long  in  her  rump, 
A  straight  and  flat  back,  without  e'er  a  hump  ; 
She's  wide  in  her  hips,  and  calm  in  her  eyes, 
She's  fine  in  her  shoulders,  and  thin  in  her  thighs. 

She's  light  in  her  neck,  and  small  inner  tail, 
She's  wide  in  her  breast,  and  good  at  the  pail ; 
She's  fine  in  her  bone,  and  silky  of  skin, 
She's  a  grazier's  without,  and  a  butcher's  within. 

N  fact,"  as  we  mentally  note  while  gazing  at  a  ticket 
marked  jQ%o  on  our  charmer's  tail  at  the  Smithfield  Club 
Show — 

"  She's  all  my  fancy  painted  her,  she's  lovely,  she's  divine, 
But  she's  sold  unto  a  butcher,  she  never  can  be  mine." 

Whether  a  visitor  to  "  merrye  England ''  be  from  Far  Cathay,  the 
Land  of  the  Rising  Sun,  or  a  dweller  in  Mesopotamia,  and  beyond 
Jordan,  he  can  hardly  betake  himself  to  a  better  place  to  study  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  English  than  the  Smithfield  Club  Show. 
Nor  is  the  sight  of  the  bovine  race,  fattened  to  repletion,  and  as 
bucolic  in  appearance  as  John  Bull  himself,  an  absolutely  repulsive 
feature  in  the  exhibition. 

Some  poet  in  want  of  a  better  theme  once  wrote : 

Xo  meaner  creatures — scan  'em  all — 

By  fire  their  food  prepare  ; 
Man  is  the  cooking  animal, 

And  need  be  nothing  mair. 

If  England  is  the  home  of  "  plum  pudding,"  it  is  also  that  of  "roast 
beef;"  and  the  object  of  all  agricultural  shows  is  to  provide  mattrid 
for  the  "  cooking  animal."    At  the  present  season,  when — 

Lposc  to  festive  joy,  the  country  round 
Laughs  with  the  loud  sincerity  of  mirth — 

many  arc  the  barons  of  beef  scattered  over  England,  emanating  from 

The  Smithfield  Club  Show.  85 

the  Smithfield  Fat  Cattle  Show.  In  the  "good  old  days,"  when 
oxen  were  roasted  whole,  and  the  ordinary  bill  of  fare  of  a  country 
squire  at  Christmas  time  consisted  of 

Hogsheads  of  honey,  kilderkins  of  mustard, 
Muttons,  and  fatted  beeves,  and  bacon  swine  ; 

Herons  and  bitterns,  peacocks,  swans,  and  bustards, 
Teal,  mallard,  pigeons,  widgeons,  and,  in  fine, 

Plum-puddings,  pancakes,  apple-pics,  and  custards, 

such    "fatted    beeves"   as    those   lately   exhibited,   and    many  of 
which  by  thfc  time  have  vanished  down  our  readers'  throats,  existed 
not  except  in   the  luscious  dreams  of  some   epicurean   alderman. 
Beach's  Food  for  Cattle  had  not  then  been  invented,  and  Messrs. 
Carter  and  Co.  and  Sutton  and  Co.  were  not  in  existence  to  ransack 
foreign  lands  for  the  germs  of  the  succulent  grasses  and  roots  neces- 
sary to  the  production  of  prime  beef.     As  our  readers  are  aware,  the 
breeds  of  cattle  throughout  the  United  Kingdom  vary  in  different 
districts,  from  the  small  hardy  varieties  of  the  northern  Highlands 
to  the  bulky  and  more  meat-carrying  breeds  of  the  southern  parts  of 
England.     Formerly  it  was  customary  to  classify  the  whole  according 
to  the  comparative  length  of  the  horns — as  the  Long-horned,  Short- 
horned,  Middle-horned,  Crumpled-horned,  and  Hornless  or  Polled 
breeds.     Nowadays,  however,  the  various  breeds  are  classified  under 
the  nomenclature  of  Devons,  Herefords,  Sussex,  Norfolk  or  Suffolk 
polled,    Long-horns,   Short-horns,    Scotch,    Irish,  Welsh,    Cross   or 
Mixed.    Whatever  be  their  breed,  there  are  certain  forms  and  shapes 
which  cattle*  must  possess  to  prove  remunerative  to  their  breeders. 
We  need  hardly  remark  that  these  peculiarities  must  be  developed  to 
the  utmost  to  obtain  a  prize  at  such  a  grand  competitive  exhibition 
as  the  Smithfield  Club  Show;  and  we  shall  enumerate  a  few  "points" 
necessary  for  a  "  bovine  "  to  possess  before  receiving  attention  at 
the  hands  of  the  judges.     If  there  is  one  part  of  the  frame  the  form 
of  which,  more  than  of  any  other,  renders  the  animal  valuable,  it  is 
the  chest.     There  must  be  room  enough  for  the  heart  to  beat  and 
the  lungs  to  play,  or  sufficient  blood  for  the  purposes  of  nutriment 
and  strength  will  not  be  circulated  ;  nor  will  it  thoroughly  undergo 
that  vital  change  which  is  essential  to  the  proper  discharge  of  every 
function.     We  look,  therefore,  first  of  all,  to  the  wide  and  deep  girth 
about  the  heart  and  lungs.     We  must  have  both.     The  proportion  in 
which  the  one  or  the  other  may  preponderate  will  depend  on  the 
service  we  require  from  the  animal ;  we  can  excuse  a  slight  degree  of 
flatness  of  the  sides,  for  the  beast  will  be  lighter  in  the  forehand, 

86  The  Gentleman  s  Magazitie. 

and  more  active;  but  the  grazier  must  have  width  as  well  as 
depth.  And  not  only  about  the  heart  and  lungs,  but  over 
the  whole  of  the  ribs,  must  we  have  both  length  and  round- 
ness ;  the  hooped  as  well  as  the  deep  barrel  is  essential ;  there 
must  be  room  for  the  capacious  paunch,  room  for  the  materials 
from  which  the  blood  is  to  be  provided.  The  beast  should 
also  be  ribbed  home;  there  should  be  little  space  between  the  ribs 
and  the  hips.  This  seems  to  be  indispensable  in  the  steer,  as  it 
denotes  a  good  healthy  constitution,  and  a  propensity  to  fatten ;  but 
a  largeness  and  drooping  of  the  belly,  notwithstanding  that  the 
symmetry  of  the  animal  is  impaired,  are  considered  advantageous  in 
the  cow,  because  room  is  thus  left  for  the  udder;  and  if  these 
qualities  are  accompanied  by  swelling  milk  veins,  her  value  in  the 
dairy  is  generally  increased.  This  roundness  and  depth  of  the  barrel, 
however,  are  most  advantageous  in  proportion  as  found  behind  the 
point  of  the  elbow  more  than  between  the  shoulders  and  legs ;  or 
low  down  between  the  legs,  rather  than  upwards  towards  the  withers; 
for  the  heaviness  before  and  the  comparative  bulk  of  the  coarse  parts 
of  the  animal  are  thus  diminished,  which  is  always  a  very  great 
consideration.  The  loins  should  be  wide — of  this  there  can  be  no 
doubt,  for  they  are  the  prime  parts ;  they  should  seem  to  extend  far 
along  the  back ;  and  although  the  belly  should  not  hang  down,  the 
flanks  should  be  round  and  deep.  Of  the  hips  it  is  superfluous  to 
say  that,  without  being  ragged,  they  should  be  large ;  round  rather 
than  wide,  and  presenting  when  handled  plenty  of  muscle  and  fat 
The  thighs  should  be  full  and  long,  close  together  when  viewed 
from  behind,  and  the  farther  down  they  continue  close  the 
better.  Shortness  of  leg  is  a  good  general  rule,  for  there  is  an 
almost  inseparable  connection  between  length  of  leg  and  lightness  of 
carcase,  and  shortness  of  leg  and  propensity  to  fatten.  The  bones 
of  the  legs  (and  they  are  taken  as  samples  of  the  bones  of  the  frame 
generally)  should  be  small,  but  not  too  much  so — small  enough  for  the 
well-known  accompaniment,  a  propensity  to  fatten — small  enough 
to  please  the  consumer;  but  not  so  small  as  to  indicate  delicacy 
of  constitution  and  liability  to  disease.  Lastly,  the  hide — the  most 
important  point  of  all — should  be  thin,  but  not  so  thin  as  to  indicate 
that  the  animal  can  endure  no  hardship  ;  movable,  mellow,  but  not 
too  loose,  and  particularly  well  covered  with  fine  and  soft  hair.  The 
dictum  of  the  judges  at  the  SmithfieldClub  Show  was  not  disputed, 
we  believe,  in  a  single  instance — which  does  great  credit  to  their  per- 
spicuity and  impartiality.     The  exhibition  of  Devons  was  remarkably 

The  Smithfield  Club  S/iozv.  87 

good,  and  the  liking  for  these  cattle  amongst  breeders  is  on  the 
increase.  Mr.  William  A.  H.  Smith,  a  well-known  breeder,  took  the 
first  prize  of  jC2°  m  tn*s  class,  as  well  as  the  silver  medal ;  the  third 
prize  of  ^10.  going  to  the  same  breeder.  These  animals  were  as 
near  perfection  as  possible,  and  immeasurably  superior  to  others  in 
this,  the  two  years  and  six  months  old  class.  In  Class  2  for  Devons 
not  exceeding  three  years  and  six  months  old,  the  first  prize  of  j£$o 
and  the  silver  medal  fell  to  Mr.  John  Overman.  The  other  classes 
in  this  breed  were  above  the  average  in  meat  carrying  qualities.  In 
Herefords,  Mr.  A.  Pike  took  the  first  prize,  Mr.  G.  Bedford  taking 
the  silver  medal  for  the  breeder.  The  other  prizes  for  Herefords 
were  awarded  with  difficulty,  there  not  being  "a  pin  to  choose" 
between  some  of  the  animals.  Some  of  them,  however,  were  a 
trifle  "  leggy,"  but  we  must  not  be  too  critical,  as  the  general  display 
was  good.  The  shorthorns,  as  a  class,  were  up  to  the  mark.  In  that 
for  steers  not  exceeding  two  years  and  six  months  old,  Mr.  James 
Bruce  was  rightly  facile  princcps,  taking  the  ^20  prize  and  the  silver 
medal  for  the  breeder.  A  finer  "  barrelled  "  animal  we  never  saw. 
In  Sussex  steers  Mr.  G.  Coote  took  the  ^20  prize  and  silver  medal 
for  breeder  in  the  two  years  and  six  months  old  class.  The  remaining 
•exhibits  in  this  breed  were  well  framed  and  knit  together,  realising 
high  prices  from  the  London  butchers.  The  Norfolk  and  Suffolk 
Polled  breed,  were  it  not  for  the  exhibits  of  H.R.H.  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  would  have  been  in  a  minority,  as  far  as  excellence  is  con- 
-cerned.  The  first  prize  of  £  1 5  went  to  Sandringham  Farm,  and  so 
<lid  the  second  prize  in  another  class.  The  Scotch  Highland  steers 
were  much  admired ;  for  roundness  and  depth  of  barrel  and  width 
of  loin  they  could  not  be  surpassed.  The  first  prize  of  ^30  was 
awarded  to  the  Duchess  of  Athole,  the  silver  medal  for  the  breeder 
being  taken  by  the  Duke  of  Athole.  In  the  other  classes  the  display 
Avas  good,  but  as  the  distance  is  an  effectual  bar  to  a  large  exhibi- 
tion of  Scotch  animals,  it  must  not  be  taken  as  a  fair  criterion  of  the 
sort  of  beef  that  can  be  had  north  of  the  Tweed. 

Sheep  mustered  in  great  numbers.  One  cannot  gaze  on  this  useful 
animal  without  recalling  to  mind  Shakespeare's  simile.  In  the  scene 
where  Gloucester  rudely  drives  the  Lieutenant  from  the  side  of 
Henry  VI.,  the  unfortunate  monarch  thus  complains  of  his  helpless- 
ness : — 

So  flies  the  reckless  shepherd  from  the  wolf: 
So  first  the  harmless  sheep  doth  yield  its  fleece. 
And  next  his  throat  unto  the  butcher's  knife. 

88  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


In  the  Saxon  era  the  value  of  a  sheep  was  is.  At  the  time  of  the 
Conquest  four  sheep  were  equivalent  to  an  acre  of  land.  In  the  years- 
1041  and  1 125  a  pestilent  epidemic  carried  off  large  quantities  in  this. 
kingdom ;  so  much  so  that  they  became  very  scarce,  and  at  the  close 
of  the  reign  of  Henry  I.  sold  for  20s.,  and  in  his  successor's  reign  at 
25  s.  The  introduction  of  turnips  gave  a  great  impetus  to  the  breeding 
of  sheep,  inasmuch  as  they  provided  succulent  nourishment  during  the 
long  winter.  The  chief  breeds  valued  nowadays  are  the  Black-faced 
Heath,  Dorset,  Wiltshire,  Southdown,  Norfolk,  and  Cheviot.  These 
species  are  justly  regarded  as  the  most  valuable  to  the  butcher,  and  as- 
such  are  the  only  ones  we  care  much  about  seeing  at  the  Smithfield 
Club  Show.  The  judges  in  this  department  of  the  exhibition  stuck 
strictly  to  the  motto,  "Pal mam  qui  meruit  fcrat"  and  the  prizes  were 
well  awarded.  In  the  Leicesters,  a  class  of  sheep  chiefly  valuable 
for  their  wool,  Mr.  F.  J.  S.  Foljambe,  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale,  and  Mr. 
W.  Brown  took  respectively  the  ^20,  ^15,  and  £5  prizes.  In  Cots- 
wolds  and  Lincolns  there  was  a  good  show.  The  Kentish  and  Cross- 
bred long-woolled  sheep  also  were  up  to  killing  mark.  Southdowns 
were  worthy  of  note.  The  Duke  of  Richmond,  Mr.  W.  Rigden,  and 
Lord  Sondes  took  ^20,  £1 5,  and  £$  prizes  in  this  class.  Hampshire 
or  Wiltshire  Downs  showed  well.  Shropshire  breeds  might  have  carried 
more  meat.  Oxfordshire,  Ryland,  Cheviot,  Dorset,  &c,  were  fair 
exhibits.  The  Mountain  Breed  had  little  but  the  "name"  about 
them.  The  cross-bred  long  and  short  woolled  class  were  in  good 
form.  As  regards  "extra  stock,"  we  cannot  but  put  in  a  word  of 
commendation,  many  of  them  being  above  the  average  for  butchering 

Taken,  however,  as  an  exhibition  of  good  breeding,  this  department 
of  the  Smithfield  Club  Show  compares  badly  with  that  for  cattle. 
Some  breeders  do  not  care  for  "  honour  and  glory ;"  these  gentlemen 
object  to  the  trouble  of  going  long  distances  from  home  to  exhibit ; 
and  for  this  reason  far  better  animals  are  sometimes  seen  at  local 
agricultural  shows.  The  English  and  the  Chinese  are  partial  to* 
swine's  flesh,  inasmuch  as  being  "hard  workers"  they  appreciate 
the  heat -giving  and  strength-sustaining  nutriment  of  the  "unclean 
animal."  Since  the  days  of  Gurth  the  swineherd,  England  has 
been  famed  for  its  porkers,  but  never  more  so  than  at  the  present 
moment.  Even  the  Japanese  ambassadors  stared  at  the  huge 
barrels  of  "live  pork,"  which  lay  almost  sightless,  pretty  nearly 
breathless,  side  by  side  in  their  special  department  at  the  Smithfield 
Club  Show. 

The  Smithficld  Club  S/iozv.  89 

An  old  saw  has  it-  - 

Fat  peasc-fed  swine 
For  drover  is  fine. 

And  truly  the  Hampshire  hog,  reared  par  excellence  in  a  pea-growing 
district,  "for  drover  is  fine  !"  The  crowds  that  pressed  to  gaze  on 
the  porcine  exhibits  must  have  been  seen  to  be  believech  The 
homage  paid  by  speculative  butchers  to  the  prize  pigs,  who — 

Like  to  the  Pontic  Monarch  of  old  days 

■ Fed  on  poisons ;  and  they  had  no  power, 

But  Were  a  kind  of  nutriment ! 

And,  pray,  what  will  jwt  a  pig  devour  ?  In  olden  times  Thomas 
Tusser  warned  pig  breeders  that — 

Through  plenty  of  acorns,  the  porkling  too  fat, 
Not  taken  in  season,  may  perish  by  that. 
If  rattling  or  swelling  once  get  to  the  throat, 
Thou  losest  thy  porkling— a  crown  to  a  groat. 

In  modern  times  there  is  not  much  fear  of  Hampshire  hogs  choking 
themselves  with  acorns,  unless  given  on  a  "  charger  "  by  their  careful 
attendant,  who  offers  a  modicum  of  Hope's  Food  with  all  the 
deference  he  would  use  to  an  alderman  asking  for  turtle.  Truly  pigs 
have  undergone  a  change  since  the  days  when  the  Mysian  Olympus 
was  laid  waste  and  Croesus  robbed  of  his  heir.  A  fine  beast,  too,  must 
have  been  that  of  Erymanthus,  which  gave  Hercules  such  a  job.  True 
we  have  "  learned  pigs,''  descendants  of  the  prophetic  Lavinian  sow ; 
but  for  a  good  juicy-looking  morccau  commend  us  to  "  No.  368,"  at 
the  Smithfield  Club  Show,  bred  by  Her  Majesty  at  the  Prince 
Consort's  Show  Farm,  Windsor.  This  favoured  animal  took  the 
^10  prize,  as  well  as  the  silver  medal  for  his  royal  breeder.  Truly, 
this  favoured  porker  may,  for  aught  we  know,  be  a  descendant  of 
the  porci  bimestrcs,  which  Juvenal  epicureanly  termed  animal  propter* 
convivia  natum.  In  the  Pigs  of  Any  Breed  class  Mr.  H.  A.  Brassey, 
M.P.,  took  the  £\o  prize  and  silver  medal  for  the  breeder.  All  the 
other  exhibits  in  pigs  were  excellent,  and  a  credit,  not  only  to  their 
breeders,  but  to  the  country  at  large. 

The  agricultural  implements  at  the  Smithfield  Club  Show  have 
become  a  special  feature  in  this  annual  exhibition.  The  perpetual 
"bragging'*  of  the  agricultural  labourer,  and  the  threatening  attitude 
assumed  towards  fanners,  have  led  the  yeomanry  to  demand  from 
manufacturers  as  many  machines  as  possible,  to  enable  them  to  dis- 
pense with  "  field  hands."     Amongst  the  best  of  modern  implements 

90  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

was  Messrs.  Marshall,  Sons,  and  Co.'s  thrashing  and  finishing  machine, 
which  is  of  very  compact  design,  all  the  working  parts,  including  the 
elevator,  being  contained  within  the  frame  and  being  thus  protected 
from  the  effects  of  weather  and  rough  usage.  Everything  is  so 
arranged  that  the  work  can  be  carried  on  in  the  most  convenient 
manner,  the  straw  and  canings  being  delivered  from  the  front  of  the 
machine,  and  the  chaff  cleaned  and  delivered  into  bags  at  the  side, 
while  the  finished  corn  is  deposited  into  sacks  at  the  back.  The 
construction  is  in  every  respect  very  substantial,  the  whole  of  the 
framing  is  of  the  best  seasoned  oak,  while  the  drum  and  breastwork 
.are  of  wrought  iron,  and  the  drum  spindles,  shaker,  and  shoe  cranks 
are  of  steel ;  all  the  shaft  bearings  are  of  good  length  with  substantial 
brasses,  and  well  protected  from  dust  and  dirt. 

It  was  to  a  machine  of  the  same  class  that  the  judges  awarded  the 
first  prize  of  ^40  at  the  Royal  Agricultural  Society's  Show  in  July 
last  (the  only  difference  being  that  the  Cardiff  machine  was  fitted 
with  a  "  Rainforth's  Patent  Separating  Screen"),  and  we  cannot  be 
surprised  at  the  short  but  very  satisfactory  comment  passed  upon  it 
in  the  Royal  Agricultural  Society's  Report : — "An  exceedingly  well- 
made  machine."  Referring  to  the  table  of  results  published  by  the 
society,  we  observe  that  in  two  trials  of  wheat-thrashing,  405  and  406 
points  respectively  were  made,  in  barley  427,  while  in  oats  the  high 
number  of  447  points  were  recorded  out  of  a  possible  total  of  450, 
and  this  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  malicious  damage  had  been 
done  to  the  screen  of  the  machine  during  the  night  before  the  trials, 
which  could  only  be  hastily  repaired  upon  the  ground  with  such 
rough  and  ready  appliances  as  happened  to  be  at  hand.  We  are 
informed  that  Messrs.  Marshall,  Sons,  and  Co.  have  during  the  past 
year  more  than  doubled  the  extent  of  their  works  at  Gainsborough, 
and  have  just  completed,  among  other  buildings,  one  of  the  finest 
engine-erecting  shops  in  the  kingdom. 

Messrs.  E.  R.  and  F.  Turner,  of  Ipswich,  are  a  firm  familiar  to  agricul- 
turists and  others  from  their  celebrated  crushing  mills,  which  continue 
to  gain  renown  for  the  manufacturers,  and  have  recently  been  awarded 
the  silver  medal  by  the  Royal  Society  of  the  Netherlands,  at  the 
Hague.  The  firm  showed  several  varieties  of  these  crushers,  but 
they  need  no  description  or  prrise  from  us,  their  utility  having  stood 
the  test  of  long  experience.  Two  specimens  of  the  R.  A.  S.  E. 
first  prize  grinding  mills  with  French  stones,  3  feet  and  2)2  feet  in 
diameter,  were  also  on  view,  and  they  appeared  still  to  merit  the  high 
encomium  given  them  by  the  Royal  Agricultural  Society's  judges  at 

The  Smithfield  Club  Show.  91 

Oxford,  that  they  were  "  exceedingly  well  made."  A  malt  mill,  with 
compound  wedge  adjustment,  for  ensuring  equal  wear  on  the  faces  of 
the  rolls,  was  also  shown  at  this  stand,  as  well  as  oilcake  breakers 
for  hand  power,  the  larger  of  the  two  being  provided  with  two  sets  of 
rolls,  so  as  to  reduce  cake  to  the  smallest  size,  with  less  wear  to  the 
teeth,  and  with  less  power  than  in  the  ordinary  machines. 

Besides  mills  of  all  kinds  for  preparing  food  for  stock,  &c, 
E.  R.  and  F.  Turner  are  celebrated  as  manufacturers  of  small 
thrashing  sets  of  three  to  five-horse  power,  which,  to  judge  from  the 
specimen  exhibited,  they  have  succeeded  in  bringing  to  a  high  state 
of  efficiency.  The  set  exhibited  was  of  five-horse  power,  the  engine- 
being  well  proportioned  and  of  substantial  construction.  The 
thrasher  was  four  feet  wide  and  of  the  double  blast. finishing  class. 
Strict  attention  to  practical  utility  in  design  and  constructive  excel- 
lence in  these  small  thrashing  sets  has  obtained  for  this  firm  a 
leading  position  in  their  manufacture,  and  they  are  in  large  demand 
in  districts  where  the  transport  of  larger  and  heavier  machines  would 
be  impossible.  Another  great  advantage  attaching  to  them  is  the 
small  number  of  hands  necessary  to  work  them,  while  their  capacity 
— />.,  the  work  done  by  them — is  by  no  means  small.  The  makers 
assert  that  a  careful  account  would  show  that  in  a  season  as  much 
would  be  earned  by  a  small  thrashing  set  as  by  a  large  one,  the  smaller 
having  an  advantage  in  the  facility  with, which  it  may  be  removed 
and  set  to  work,  and  delay  thus  avoided.  The  gold  medal  of  the 
Royal  Society  of  the  Netherlands  was  awarded  to  one  of  these 
thrashers  at  the  Hague  in  September  last. 

Messrs.  Howard,  of  Bedford,  the  well-known  steam  plough  manu- 
facturers, exhibited  some  magnificent  implements,  which  can  be  seen 
daily  at  work  on  their  own  grounds.  Messrs.  Richmond  and 
Chandler  showed,  amengst  other  implements,  their  well-known 
thrashing  machines,  which  have  taken  first  prizes  of  the  Royal 
Societies  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  also  the  silver  medals 
of  the  International  Exhibitions  at  London  and  Paris.  The  principal 
features  in  their  new  chaff  machines  consist  in  an  entirely  new  form 
of  mouthpiece,  so  constructed  that  however  irregularly  the  machine 
may  be  fed,  and  whatever  quality  of  hay  or  straw  may  be  placed 
therein,  /'/  nrccr  chokes.  The  surface  of  the  mouthpiece  is  made  of 
steel,  and  this  has  the  advantage  of  presenting  the  same  smooth  edge 
as  long  as  the  machine  lasts ;  the  knives  are  also  kept  sharper  on  the 
steel  face  than  when  cutting  against  cast  iron.  There  is  also  an  ex- 
panding jaw  to  the  mouthpiece,  which  jaw  is  hinged  to  the  axle  of 

92  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

the  upper  toothed  roller,  and  is  pressed  down  by  a  hand-screw  so  as 
to  securely  hold  the  material  being  cut,  while  admitting  of  consider- 
able alteration  according  to  the  nature  of  the  substance  acted  upon. 
A  travelling  web  is  introduced  in  place  of  the  ordinary  bed  of  the 
feeding  box,  which  is  a  material  help  to  the  attendant,  particularly, 
in  the  larger  machines,  relieving  him  of  the  labour  of  pulling  the  hay 
or  straw  forward,  and  allowing  him  to  concentrate  his  entire  attention 
on  the  feed.  A  handle  is  placed  at  the  side  of  the  machine,  by  which 
two  lengths  of  cut  are  obtained,  and  the  same  handle  acts  upon  a 
stop  motion  to  arrest  the  rollers  at  any  moment. 

Messrs.  Isaac  James  and  Son  exhibited,  amongst  other  thingsy 
an  excellent  manure  cart,  and  a  capital  roller  and  clod  crusher. 
Messrs.  E.  Page  and  Co.  maintained  their  reputation  as  manufacturers- 
of  agricultural  implements;  as  also  did  Messrs.  Underhill.  Mr. 
Benjamin  Edgington,  of  Duke  Street,  London  Bridge,  as  usual  had 
to  show  something  useful  for  farmers  in  his  rick  cloths,  marquees, 
tents,  &c. ;  as  well  as  a  light,  strong,  pliable  cloth  for  waggon  and 
cart  covers.  Messrs.  Burney  and  Co.  exhibited  some  excellent  water 
carts  and  cisterns. 

Carriages  may  be  considered  one  of  the  best  features  at  the 
Smithfield  Club  Show.  In  this  line  Mr.  Thorn,  of  Norwich,  showed 
some  first-class  workmanship.  Amongst  other  things,  we  would 
specially  select  for  commendation  his  Norfolk  shooting  cart,  with 
"  adjustable  shafts."  Mr.  Inwood,  of  St.  Albans,  showed,  amongst 
others,  a  very  pretty  dogcart,  which  attracted  much  attention.  Mr. 
Ayshford,  of  Britannia  Works,  Fulham,  exhibited  his  patent  dogcart, 
which  was  much  admired.  Mr.  Boxall,  of  Grantham,  also  displayed 
a  serviceable  shooting  cart  and  very  pretty  park  phaeton.  Mr.  Samuel 
Smith,  of  Suffolk,  the  inventor  of  the  now  well-known  Perithreon,  ex- 
hibited a  brougham,  possessing  a  "magic  door,"  capable  of  being 
opened  and  closed  by  the  driver  from  his  seat,  by  a  very  simple  piece 
of  mechanism.  Messrs.  Day,  Son,  and  Hewitt,  the  well-known  makers 
of  .the  "  stock-breeder's  medicine  chests,"  had  many  visitors  to  their 
stall  in  search  of  the  panacea  for  "foot  and  mouth  disease." » 

The  sewing  machines  exhibited  by  Messrs.  Newton,  Wilson,  and 
Co.  attracted  much  attention  from  country  visitors.  The  Howe 
Sewing  Machine  Company's  stand  was  also  a  centre  of  attraction 
— or,  rather,  the  young  lady  was,  on  account  of  the  deftness  dis- 
played by  her  machine  in  what,  we  were  informed,  is  technically 
known  as  "  braiding  "  amongst  ladies.  No  show  could  be  complete 
without  Bradford's  "Vowel"  Washing  Machines,   upon  whiefe,  as 

The  Smith  field  Club  Shoiu.  93 

usual,  there  was  a  great  "  run."  In  garden  furniture  and  requisites 
Mr.  Alfred  Pierce  showed  some  novelties.  Altogether,  what  we 
41 jotted"  down  at  the  time  as  worthy  of  notice  seems  upon  reading 
over  quite  like  an  account  of  the  contents  of  an  Agricultural  Exhibi- 
tion, which  indeed  is  a  true  description  of  this  great  annual  show. 
No  other  country  could  produce  anything  like  it,  and  Englishmen 
may  well  be  proud  of  such  an  institution,  devoted  to  the  develop- 
ment of  stock,  produce,  and  agricultural  implements.  Although  the 
London  streets  did  not  appear  to  us  to  indicate  so  many  visitors  as 
usual,  the  show  was  in  this  respect  one  of  the  most  successful  on 

Stranger  than  Fiction, 





Y  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Williams,  Jacob  was  enabled  at 
once  to  throw  up  his  Dinsley  engagement ;  and,  on  the 
invitation  of  Mr.  Horatio  Johnson  (with  whom  Mr. 
Williams  had  recently  spent  a  day  at  Middleton),  he 
took  Liverpool  on  his  way  into  the  Principality  of  Wales,  for  the 
purpose  of  bidding  adieu  to  a  party  of  emigrants  in  whose  welfare  he 
was  deeply  interested. 

It  was  a  calm  summer  night,  when  Jacob  and  the  Doctor,  and 
Mrs.  Horatio  Johnson,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thomas  Titsy,  sat  in  a 
corner  of  the  best  cabin  of  the  Hesperus,  bound  to  Canada.  The 
moonlight  was  streaming  in  upon  them  through  the  cabin  window ; 
Mrs.  Johnson  was  plying  her  knitting  needles,  and  looking  up  occa- 
sionally to  make  a  remark ;  the  Doctor  was  detailing  to  Jacob  his 
views  about  the  future,  and  the  comparative  ease  with  which  money 
begot  money  in  the  colonies ;  Tom  was  listening  to  the  Doctor  and 
smiling  at  Susan ;  and  Jacob  was  wishing  them  all  sorts  of  success 
and  happiness,  Vhenever  a  lull  occurred  in  the  conversation,  and 
exacting  promises  of  frequent  letters. 

The  parting  hour  came  at  last.  Mrs.  Johnson,  though  in  her  heart 
she  could  not  altogether  forgive  Jacob,  for  we  know  what,  united  in 
the  general  feeling  of  sorrow  at  leaving  him ;  but  happy  in  their  own 
goodness  and  honest  affection,  not  one  of  the  four  had  any  regrets  in 
setting  out  for  a  new  home  far  away  from  scenes  which  were  asso- 
ciated with  so  many  bitter  memories.  Jacob  took  his  leave  with 
much  real  emotion  ;  and  an  hour  afterwards  stood  gazing  at  a  ship 
that  was  disappearing  in  the  moonlight,  to  be  followed  by  other 
vessels  which  other  people  would  look  after  and  wave  handkerchiefs 
at,  and  weep  about,  and  dream  of  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night 
On  the  following  afternoon  Jacob  arrived  at  the  first  stage  in  his 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  95 

Welsh  journeying,  and  found  at  the  post-office,  Neathville,  according 
to  prior  arrangement,  a  bundle  of  proofs  of  his  first  book.  To  read 
these  was,  at  that  time,  a  labour  of  love  indeed,  even  though  the 
labour  continued  long  after  the  sun  had  disappeared,  and  the  moon 
had  risen  again — the  same  moon  that  was  looking  down  on  the 
emigrant  ship,  .and  making  long  white  tracks  on  the  distant  ocean 
which  now  rolled  between  Jacob  and  his  old  friends. 

Neathville  was  a  quiet,  mossy  old  place,  with  the  sea  in  front,  and 
on  every  other  side  a  country  studded  with  grey  ruins  of  old  walls 
and  castles,  the  histories  of  which  are  a  rich  mine  of  instruction, 
poetry,  and  romance.  The  Flemish  found  the  town  a  fishing  village, 
and,  struck  with  its  many  natural  advantages,  settled  there,  and, 
assisted  by  Norman  allies,  fortified  the  place ;  but  the  Welsh  many- 
years  afterwards  surprised  the  settlers,  put  them  to  the  sword,  and  razed 
the  fortifications  to  the  ground.  From  that  period  (somewhere  about 
the  eleventh  century),  until  after  the  advent  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  the 
history  of  Neathville  had  been  one  of  great  interest — a  story  of  war 
and  tribulation,  of  piracy  and  bloodshed,  of  sack  and  famine,  of 
heroism  and  bravery  ;  and  in  all  quarters  the  antiquary  could  lay  his 
fingers  upon  some  fine  memento  of  the  greatness  and  the  littleness 
of  past  ages.  There  was  an  old  castle ;  a  grey  church,  filled  with 
quaint  memorials ;  some  ruined  walls,  the  remains  of  a  priory ;  two 
medicinal  springs,  and  many  other  attractions ;  besides  the  frirtge  of 
rocks  which  skirted  the  bay  and  ran  out,  in  picturesque  pinnacles, 
into  the  sea. 

At  the  period  of  my  story,  the  fine  sandy  beach  was  not  the  prome- 
nade of  fast  gentlemen  from  town,  looking  through  eye-glasses  at  fast 
ladies  from  the  same  place;  nor  had  the  donkey  driver  even  made  his 
appearance.  At  the  most  fashionable  hour  in  the  day  Jacob  saw 
only  a  few  groups  of  people  on  the  immense  tract  of  beach,  which 
stretched  away  until  it  seemed  to  join  the  clouds  at  a  famous  point, 
where  many  a  ship  had  been  lured  to  destruction  in  the  dark  days  of 
the  wreckers. 

Musing  with  his  own  thoughts,  which  were  chiefly  occupied  with 
the  design  of  writing  a  full  explanation  of  his  position  to  Lucy,  and 
endeavouring  to  fix  an  interview  which  should  be  final  "  for  weal  or 
woe,"  Jacob  was  returning  home  one  evening  not  long  after  his 
arrival  in  Neathville,  when,  as  if  in  response  to  his  feelings,  there  fell 
upon- his  ear  the  faint  melody  of  a  strain  so  familiar  to. him  that  at 
first  he  thought  it  but  the  creation  of  his  own  fancy.  A  treacherous 
memory  and  a  strong  imagination  will  sometimes  play  strange  tricks 
with  the  senses ;  but  Jacob  was  soon  convinced  that  the  music  which. 

qG  The  Gentleman 's  Magazine. 

he  heard  was  a  charming  reality.  It  stole  over  the  rocks,  in  undu- 
lating cadences,  and  transported  him  back  to  days  of  yore,  as  com- 
pletely as  though  he  had  been,  under  some  such  spell  as  Mesmer 
might  have  worked,  taking  the  reason  prisoner,  and  planting  the  mind 
with  whatever  picture  the  enchanter  willed.  Jacob  was  again  in  the 
garden  at  Middleton,  with  the  morning  sun  shining  upon  him,  amidst 
the  sounds  of  falling  waters,  and  the  songs  of  birds. 

There  is  a  happy  land, 
Far,  far  away. 

High  over  the  rocks  above  him,  from  a  noble  half-castellated  house, 
came  the  well-known  music ;  and,  as  Jacob  listened,  all  the  sensa- 
tions of  hope  and  fear  and  doubt  and  dread  which  he  had  felt  when 
he  looked  on  the  footprints  in  the  snow  at  Cartown  replaced  the 
first  thoughts  of  the  old  home  and  the  garden-paradise.  There  was 
only  one  voice  which  could  sing  that  song  so  sweetly,  so  plaintively. 
A  harp  accompaniment  added  to  the  effect  of  the  dear  old  melody, 
and  with  the  murmur  of  the  sea  as  a  deep  bass,  and  Jacob's  own 
strong  imagination  and  memories  of  happy  times,  my  readers  will 
readily  believe  that  the  music  was  an  attraction  which  Jacob  did  not 
desire  to  resist. 

To  go  round  by  the  regular  path,  to  reach  .the  house  situated  on, 
the  summit  of  the  rocks,  were  a  tedious  process  indeed  for  Jacob  in 
his  present  mood.  Straight  to  the  house  whence  the  music  came 
was  his  only  course.  Away  he  went  with  the  alacrity  of  a  practised 
climber.  There  had  been  a  time  when  his  mind  would  not,  under 
similar  circumstances,  have  strayed  for  a  moment  from  the  object 
of  his  climbing ;  but  now  that  he  was  an  author,  the  demon  of 
4,1  copy,"  which  sometimes  startles  writers  at  all  hours,  suggested  to 
him  what  a  capital  situation  it  would  be,  supposing  he  were  writing 
a  story  out  of  his  own  experiences,  to  make  himself  fall  over  the 
rocks  and  be  discovered  by  his  mistress  just  in  time  to  save  his 
precious  life,  and  once  more  swear  eternal  love  to  each  other. 

Jacob  did  not  fall,  although  his  path  was  made  additionally  dan- 
gerous by  the  starting  up,  here  and  there,  of  flocks  of  sea-birds,  which 
filled  the  air  with  their  peculiar  cries,  compelling  him  to  pause  and 
listen  for  the  music  to  the  source  of  which  he  was  hurrying.  He 
had  scarcely  reached  the  summit  when  the  melody  changed  to  a  new 
and  an  unknown  one ;  but,  a  few  moments  afterwards,  when  he  had 
stepped  aside  from  the  full  view  of  the  room  with  its  tall  windows 
opening  out  upon  a  lawn,  Jacob  detected  in  the  new  song  some 
simple  words  which  he  had  written  for  Lucy  Cantrill  when  he  was  a 
schoolboy  and  had  dreams  by  the  Cartown  river. 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  97 

I  have  said  that  the  windows  were  wide  open.  Screening  himself 
behind  a  figure  of  Neptune,  which  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn, 
Jacob  looked  into  the  room,  as  an  erring  mortal,  tempted  by  Naiad 
strains,  might  have  gazed  into  some  sea-beat  grot.  How  like  and 
yet  how  unlike  his  Lucy  was  the  lady  who  now  sat  conjuring  from  a 
Welsh  harp  music  that  Ariel  might  have  made  in  Prospero's  island ! 

Jacob's  heart  told  him  quickly  enough  who  was  the  musician. 
Still  the  old  times  did  not  seem  so  distinct,  now  that  he  looked  upon 
her  once  more,  as  they  had  appeared  when  he  heard  the  factory 
hymn  coming  over  the  rocks  ten  minutes  previously.  Then  he  had 
thought  of  Lucy  as  he  saw  her  under  the  apple  tree  in  Cantrilj's 
little  garden;  of  Lucy  in  her  straw  hat,  simple  bodice,  and  pro- 
vincial skirts,  walking  by  his  side  with  just  sufficient  coquettish- 
ness  to  fill  him  full  of  doubts  and  fears,  and  excite  the  wish  that 
he  were  old  enough  to  marry  her,  lest  perchance  some  more  gallant 
knight  should  carry  her  off.  But  now  he  saw  another  Lucy,  and  yet 
the  sqpne.  The  soft  blue  eyes  as  of  yore,  the  sweet  full  lip,  the  hair 
a  shade  darker,  the  figure  taller,  and  that  of  a  woman.  It  was  Lucy 
refined,  not  so  much  by  fashion  as  by  education,  and  the  effect  of 
living  in  an  aristocratic  atmosphere ;  it  was  the  beautiful  girl  of  the 
old  times  grown  into  the  lovely  woman,  and  bearing  all  the  impress 
of  the  Great  Artist's  finishing  touches. 

By-and-by  the  hand  which  had  wandered  over  the  strings  fell 
gently  by  the  performer's  side,  and  the  lady  looked  upwards;  it 
seemed  to  Jacob  as  though  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him.  A 
moment  previously  he  had  hurriedly  decided  to  present  himself  at 
the  house  in  the  usual  manner,  and  inquire  for  Miss  Thornton, 
fearing  that  the  more  romantic  fashion  of  walking  in  at  the  window 
after  a  scramble  over  the  rocks  would  alarm  her.  But  that  might 
not  be,  for  Lucy  came  forth,  passed  across  the  lawn,  close  by  where 
he  stood,  and  leaning  over  the  terrace  which  surmounted  the  rocks, 
looked  pensively  out  to  sea.  Jacob  felt  that  he  could  not  escape 
without  attracting  her  attention.  He  walked  quietly  towards  her, 
and  with  his  heart  beating  a  tattoo,  he  whispered  "  Lucy." 

The  lady  turned  round  with  a  startled,  doubtful  look.  Jacob  put 
forth  his  arms,  and  in  another  moment  Air.  Cavendish  Thornton's 
matrimonial  schemes  were  scattered  to  the  winds  for  ever. 

Jacob  went  to  his  hotel  that  night  the  happy  fellow  of  whom  he  had 
once  or  twice  only  ventured  to  dream.    He  had  told  Lucy  his  story, 
and  she  had  said  something  about  her  own.    He  needed  no  confession 
Vol.  X.  N.S.,  1873.  H 

98  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

of  her  love ;  of  its  truth  and  constancy  he  had  sufficient  evidence 
in  the  singing  of  those  simple  words,  which  had  been  a  boyish  tribute 
to  her  in  the  golden  days  of  Cartown.  He  was  certainly  puzzled  to 
know  why  she  had  not  received  his  letters ;  though  he  was  hardly 
surprised  that  her  inquiries  concerning  himself  had  been  unsuccess- 
ful. He  cared  little  or  nothing  about  these  minor  circumstances 
now.  He  could  not,  however,  help  noticing  that  they  seemed  greatly 
to  disturb  Lucy,  who  made  him  promise  to  make  some  inquiries 
concerning  the  letters  which  he  had  addressed  to  her  at  Cartown. 
He  fulfilled  this  promise  at  once,  and  by  the  same  post  wrote  to 
Ginghems  to  say  that  he  should  not  be  prepared. to  send  "copy" 
for  the  Welsh  work  so  quickly  as  he  had  at  first  anticipated.  Neath- 
ville,  he  said,  had  charmed  him  almost  beyond  description.  He 
should  never  be  sufficiently  grateful  to  them  for  sending  him  into 
Wales.  It  had  opened  up  a  world  of  romance  to  him.  They  would 
be  surprised  when  he  told  them  of  his  great  discovery  in  the  Princi- 
pality. Jacob  chuckled  at  the  hidden  waggery  of  his  letter.  He 
wrote  a  most  mad  epistle  to  Windgate  Williams,  who  really  fearedf 
Jacob's  success  had  suddenly  turned  his  head. 



The  reader  was  prepared  by  a  conversation  between  Lucy  and 
Dorothy  for  Miss  Thornton's  departure  from  London.  The  belle  of  the 
season  had  either  grown  tired  of  the  restraints  of  Mayfair,  or  she  had 
seriously  felt  her  educational  deficiencies,  or  she  was  bored  by  the  Hon. 
Max  Walton,  or  she  had  had  a  severe  relapse  into  Jacob  Martynism. 
I  am  hardly  in  a  position  to  explain  the  young  lady's  reasons  for  her 
almost  sudden  determination  to  leave  town.  She  wanted  to  go  before 
her  first  season  was  really  over ;  and  above  all  things  she  would  insist 
upon  her  uncle  keeping  her  retreat  a  secret.  Mr.  Thornton  induced  her 
to  stay  in  town  until  Lord  John  and  his  brother  Max  Walton  began  to 
make  their  arrangements  for  grouse  shooting ;  but  Lucy  was  firmness 
itself  in  her  determination  that  her  address  should  not  be  known  for 
a  long  time,  and  that  no  visitors-  should  be  invited  to  Lydstep  House. 
Her  uncle  had  been  a  good  deal  troubled  by  Lucy's  plans,  which 
excluded  a  return  to  town  for  two  or  three  years.  He  would  not 
hear  of  this.  Then  she  would  go  abroad,  ever  so  far  away,  where  it 
was  impossible  to  get  back  for  years.  Had  anything  occurred  in 
town  to  offend  or  annoy  her?    No.    Was  there  anything  he  could  do 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  99 

to  make  London  more  agreeable  to  her?  No;  she  had  no  objection 
to  London.  When  she  felt  competent  by  education  and  ordinary 
accomplishments  to  take  her  position  in  town,  she  would  return. 
She  was  competent ;  she  was  the  queen  of  the  season ;  her  accom- 
plishments had  a  freshness  that  was  charming ;  she  might  marry  into 
the  noblest  family  in  the  land  at  once,  if  she  would ;  she  was  worthy 
of  her  name,  worthy  of  all  their  gallery  of  ancestral  portraits,  worthy 
of  the  highest  state.  Mr.  Thornton  grew  eloquent  in  his  praises,  and 
entreated  the  young  beauty  to  reconsider  her  plans ;  but  Lucy  kissed 
him  and  was  adamant 

Lydstep  House  was  the  family  residence  of  some  friends  of  Mr. 
Thornton  who  had  gone  abroad  for  three  or  four  years,  and  Lucy 
accepted  the  offer  of  it  at  once,  without  seeing  it ;  and  the  place 
turned  out  all  that  could  be  desired.  Mr.  Thornton  had  visited  his 
wayward  niece  as  frequently  as  his  old  habits  would  permit.  He  had 
been  content  to  hunt  his  grouse  and  shoot  them  in  Wales  instead  of 
Scotland  for  her  sake  during  two  seasons.  Only  two  days  prior  to 
Jacob's  unexpected  appearance  on  the  scene,  he  had  once  more 
arrived  on  a  long  visit  to  his  lovely  niece,  who  was  accompanied  in 
her  retreat  by  Mr.  Thornton's  housekeeper,  and  two  awfully  clever 
and  learned  companion  teachers  of  art,  science,  and  languages — ladies 
who  had  sounded  the  depths  of  all  educational  systems,  who  had 
dived  into  the  hidden  mysteries  of  science,  and  who  had  soared  on 
the  wings  of  inspiration  into  the  highest  realms  of  art  Lucy  professed 
to  be  a  wonderfully  earnest  and  industrious  pupil  of  these  vestals  of 
learning,  tyit  she  seemed  to  devote  most  of  her  time  to  music  and 
drawing,  and  her  sketch  books  were  full  of  pictures  that  she  called 
"reminiscences."  They  were  rough  studies  of  cottages,  country 
stiles  and  walks,  bits  of  brook  scenery,  glimpses  of  woodland  nooks ; 
and  one  of  the  vestals  had  expressed  to  the  other  some  serious  alarm 
at  the  young  lady's  monotonous  kind  of  pleasures.  But  Lucy  in  her 
own  quiet  way  had  impressed  upon  their  minds  that  she  was  the 
mistress  of  Lydstep  House,  and  that  she  had  a  will  of  her  own  apart 
from  Mr.  Thornton's ;  they  therefore  kept  their  private  views  of  Miss 
Thornton's  habits  to  themselves,  and  had  nothing  but  praises  of  her 
mind,  her  intellect,  and  her  amiability  for  the  ear  of  her  uncle. 

A  few  days  after  Jacob  Martyn's  sudden  appearance  at  Lydstep 
House,  Mr.  Cavendish  Thornton,  as  was  his  wont,  having  partaken 
of  coffee  and  dry  toast  in  his  own  apartment,  went  into  Lucy's 
morning  room  to  have  a  chat  with  his  niece. 

"  I  want  to  talk  seriously  to  you,  sir,  this  morning,"  said  Lucy  the 
moment  her  uncle  entered  the  room. 

:    :   •'-  ::'  '\:      h  2 

ioo  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  child?"  said  Mr.  Thornton,  taking  her 
hand.     "  Your  lip  is  trembling,  and  you  look  angry." 

"  I  think  I  am  angry,"  said  Lucy,  "  but  I  do  not  wish  to  be  angry, 
only  firm ;  you  have  done  me  a  great  wrong,  uncle,  and  yourself  too." 
"Lucy,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  strange  manner?" 
"You  have  sacrificed  me  to  family  pride,"  said  Lucy;  "accepting 
a  trust  from  one  who  laid  down  his  life  for  the  honour  of  his  family 
and  the  glory  of  his  king,  you  have  betrayed  it ;  you  have  allowed 
me  to  go  on  doubting  the  truest  heart  that  ever  beat,  and  you  have 
almost  driven  me  into  marrying  out  of  spite  a  person  I  could  never 

Contemplating  the  abyss  upon  which  her  woman's  judgment  had 
tottered,  Lucy  was  almost  beside  herself  with  anger  against  him  who 
had  stood  between  her  and  Jacob. 

"  Lucy,  you  are  mad  or  I  am  dreaming,"  said  Mr.  Thornton,  his 
ever}r  action  betokening  the  greatest  amazement 

"  I  am  not  mad,  uncle ;  you  are  not  dreaming.  It  is  now  four 
years  since  you  found  me  a  happy  girl,  and  you  have  made  my  life 
a  burden  to  me." 

"  Lucy,  Lucy  !"  exclaimed  her  unde. 

"  What  did  I  care  for  fortune,  when  you  had  thrust  from  me  all 
I  cared  to  live  for?" 

Lucy  had  satisfied  herself,  in  a  conversation  with  Allen,  that  Mr. 
Thornton  had  intercepted  her  letters  to  Jacob  and  kept  back  Jacob's 
letters  to  herself. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  niece ;  and  all  my  love  for  you  will  not 
permit  me  to  listen  to  this  language.  Since  first  I  had  the  happiness 
of  restoring  you  to  the  world,  and  fulfilling  a  sacred  trust  confided  to 
me  by  my  nephew  and  by  your  father,  you  have  been  continually  in 
my  thoughts ;  it  has  been  my  chief  delight  to  sacrifice  myself  for 
your  happiness." 

"  Happiness  I"  exclaimed  Lucy,  with  sorrowful  dignity  and  with  a 
composure  before  which  Mr.  Thornton  grew  confused  and  troubled. 
"  Happiness  !  Was  it  not  enough  that  my  poor  mother  should  die 
of  a  broken  heart,  that  my  dear,  dear  father,  should  have  his  last 
moments  embittered  by  your  miserable  family  pride?  Was  not 
this  a  sufficient  sacrifice,  but  the  Thornton  blood,  the  Thornton 
escutcheon,  the  Thornton  portrait  gallery  should  demand  another 
victim  ?" 

"When  you  are  mistress  of  yourself,  Miss  Thornton,"  said  her 
uncle,  "  I  will  listen  to  you :  meanwhile  I  will  seek  elsewhere  for 
information  concerning    the  change   which  has   come    over  you. 

Stranger  than  Fiction .  i  o  i 

Ingratitude  is  not  a  Thdrnton  vice.      You  are  not  well,  Lucy; 
you  are  not  yourself." 

Mr.  Thornton  began  to  have  some  faint  idea  of  the  situation ;  but 
he  was  too  much  overcome  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  meet  it 

"  Do  not  leave  me,  uncle,"  said  Lucy ;  "  I  will  try  and  be  calm. 
Pray  sit  down  ;  we  must  understand  each  other  now." 
.    "  Then  be  good  enough  without  this  strange  declamation — which  is 
an  accomplishment  I  did  not  know  you  possessed,  my  child — to 
explain  yourself." 

"  I  will,"  said  Lucy,  the  tears  starting  in  her  eyes.  "  When  you 
found  me  I  was  happy,  if  I  was  poor.  What  have  riches  to  do  with 
happiness  ?" 

A  great  deal,  thought  Mr.  Thornton. 

"  I  was  poor,  but  contented  and  happy  in  the  love  of  one  who,  if 
he  had  neither  name  nor  fortune  to  recommend  his  suit,  would  not 
have  soiled  his  fingers  with  dishonour  ;  no,  not  for  a  dukedom." 

Mr.  Thornton  now  saw  the  situation  clearly,  and  at  once  chided 
himself  mentally  for  thinking  that  he  could  hope  to  turn  that  youthful 
attachment  which  Allen  had  discovered  in  the  first  hours  of  their 
triumphant  discovery  of  the  Thornton  heiress. 

"  You  knew  of  my  engagement,  and  you  broke  it  ruthlessly  by 
improper  means ;  you  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  consider 
whether  he  was  worthy  of  my  love  ;  you  did  not  even  seek  to  know 
the  secret  of  my  own  heart ;  you  intercepted  his  letters." 

Mr.  Thornton  winced  at  this.  It  was  a  blow ;  it  struck  his  pride 
roughly ;  it  brought  the  colour  into  his  face. 

"  Yes,  leagued  with  your  own  servant,  to  make  me  doubt  a  true 
and  noble  heart ;  and  I  was  weak  enough  to  believe  ill  of  him.  The 
Thornton  blood  was  not  noble  enough  to  give  me  a  true  woman's 
strength,  and  faith,  and  generosity.  I  have  behaved  like  the  wretched 
thing  I  had  nearly  become — a  lady  of  fashion,  a  queen  in  society,  a 
West-end  belle.     I  despise  myself  for  the  very  narrowness  of  my 

Be  calm,  Lucy;  be  calm,"  said  Mr.  Thornton.  He  did  not 
know  what  else  to  say.  That  reference  to  the  letters  was  a  blow 
which  seemed  to  render  him  helpless. 

Between  her  tears  Lucy's  eyes  flashed  anger,  sorrow,  and  indigna- 
tion.   She  sobbed  and  paced  the  room  like  one  distraught 

"  And  to  think  that  I  should  have  doubted  him  I "  she  went  on. 
"  To  think  that  finery  and  jewels  and  those  empty  dolls  in  the  Row 
should  have  overshadowed  his  image,  should  have  dimmed  the 
remembrance  of  that  last  day  at  Cartown !    To  think  that  Mr.  Max 

102  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

Walton,  a  lord's  son,  who  makes  bets  on  his  conquest  of  a  woman, 
should  have  filled  the  very  smallest  comer  of  my  thoughts  for  a 
moment !  To  think  that  I  could  not  have  guessed  what  had  been 
done  to  deceive  me !  * 

"  Be  calm,"  said  Mr.  Thornton  again,  "  you  do  not  think  what  you 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Thornton !  Uncle,  if  you  will,"  said  Lucy,  softening. 
"  Was  this  worthy  of  you  ?  Was  this  worthy  of  your  great  and  noble 
ancestors  ?"  . 

"Damme  if  I  think  it  was  !"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  starting  up 
from  his  seat  and  striding  across  the  room.  "I  never  was  in  such  an 
infernal  fix  in  my  life.  Ton  my  soul  I  don't  quite  know  where  I  am. 
If  they  had  told  me  that  my  niece  Lucy  could  have  abused  her  proud 
old  uncle  in  this  strain  I  would  have  said  they  lied.  Damme,  I  would 
have  fought  my  own  brother  to  the  death  for  half  the  accusations  she 
has  made  against  me.  But  a  woman  ! — what  the  devil  are  you  to  do 
with  a  woman  T 

As  Lucy  softened  in  her  manner,  Mr.  Thornton  began  to  be  tempes- 
tuous. He  had  no  other  resource.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do  or 
say.  Lucy  having  given  full  rein  to  her  anger,  now,  like  a  woman, 
found  relief  in  sympathetic  tears. 

"Uncle,  I  am  only  a  woman,"  she  said.  "I  have  been  sorely  tried. 
I  did  not  mean  to  say  all  I  have  said.     I  know  it  is  all  a  mistake." 

"  Mistake,  damme !  A  fine  mistake,"  said  Mr.  Thornton,  marching 
about  the  room. 

"  I  know  you  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind ;  you  would  have  made 
me  a  queen  if  you  could." 

"  Unkind,  damme ! — heaven  forgive  me  for  swearing  in  presence  of 
a  lady — nothing  was  farther  from  my  thoughts." 

Lucy  followed  him  as  he  paced  the  room. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  thought  it  was  for  my  own  good." 

"  Good  ! — I  would  have  died  for  you.  Damme,  I  would  have  done 
factory  work  myself  for  you  sooner  than  you  should  have  been 
unhappy !" 

Lucy  took  his  hand.  The  two  went  marching  away  from  one  end 
of  the  room  to  the  other. 

"  I  could  never  marry  Max  Walton,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Damn  Max  Walton  ! — shade  of  the  Thorntons  forgive  me — you 
shall  not  be  coerced." 

Lucy  slipped  her  arm  through  her  uncle's,  and  laid  her  head  on  his. 

"Forgive  me,  uncle  —  dear  uncle,"  she  said  in  her  winning 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  103 

Colonel  Thornton  stopped  suddenly.  "  God  bless  you,  my  child," 
he  exclaimed,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  fairly  sobbing  over  her. 

"  I  could  not  bear  to  lose  your  good  opinion,  Lucy,  to  say  nothing 
of  your  love;  it  was  as  much  that  old  fool  Allen's  fault  as  mine;  I  am 
as  big  an  ass  as  he  is;  forgive  me,  darling ;  promise  never  to  say  an 
unkind  word  again  to  me;  I'm  only  an  old  woman,  a  silly  old  woman; 
I  could  not  get  on  at  all  without  you,  Lucy,  my  dear,  dear  child." 

The  old  man  stroked  her  head  and  fondled  her  hands. 

"lam  so  very  very  sorry,"  sobbed  Lucy.  "  I  ought  to  have  ex- 
plained myself  to  you  long  ago,  ought  to  have  told  you  all ;  it  is  I 
who  am  to  blame." 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  Lucy ;  say  no  more  about  it ;  put  your  arms 
round  my  neck ;  I  had  a  little  sister  like  you  when  I  was  a  boy;  she 
died  when  I  was  a  boy,  too ;  I  am  an  old  man  now,  Lucy,  a  very  old 
man ;  there,  my  dear  child,  there,  there  !" 

The  subdued  old  man  rocked  Lucy  to  and  fro  in,  his  arms  and 
crooned  over  her,  and  Lucy  was  stung  with  remorse  and  sorrow  so 
deeply  that  at  last  she  fainted  and  lay  still  as  if  she  were  dead. 

The  shock  was  very  brief;  Lucy  opened  her  eyes  at  the  first  drop 
of  water  which  the  old  man  hurriedly  flung  in  her  face. 

"  Don't  ring,"  she  whispered.     "  I  shall  be  better  in  a  moment" 

He  bathed  her  temples,  and  kissed  her,  and  chafed  her  hands,  and 
the  colour  returned  to  her  cheeks. 

"  Let  me  ring  for  a  little  sherry,"  he  said  calmly,  and  wiping  all 
traces  of  emotion  from  his  face. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Bring  some  sherry  and  a  biscui  t,"  said  Mr.  Thornton. 

When  the  wine  was  brought  and  the  servant  had  disappeared,  the 
old  man  filled  a  glass  for  Lucy,  which  he  insisted  upon  her  drinking 
at  once. 

"  Now  Lucy,  one  more — you  must  drink  this.  I  am  going  to  pro- 
pose a  toast"    Lucy  smiled  and  took  the  glass. 

"His  health,"  said  the  Colonel,  emptying  his  glass  and  turning  it 
up  German  fashion. 

Lucy  sipped  her  wine  and  looked  up  at  her  uncle,  her  eyes  full  of 
gratitude  and  love. 

"  What  has  passed  is  to  be  a  secret,  Lucy." 
Yes,  dear,"  said  Lucy. 
And  now,  my  child,  where  is  hi  ?" 

"  In  Neathville,"  said  Lucy,  her  eyes  seeking  the  ground. 

**  Thought  so,"  said  her  uncle.  "  Let  him  come  to  me,  Lucy — 
let  him  come  at  once." 



104  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

"Yes,  dear  uncle/'  said  Lucy;  "and  you  have  forgiven  my  rash 
and  cruel  and  unkind  words  ?" 

"  We  will  forgive  each  other,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  Let  us  seal  a 
bond  of  peace  and  love." 

He  took  her  face  in  both  his  hands,  kissed  her  tenderly,  patted  her 
head,  and  saying,  "  Let  him  come  to  me  at  once,"  left  the  room. 



Two  lovers  wandering  by  the  sea.  That  was  the  picture  of  the 
calm  which  followed.  Two  lovers  walking  hand  in  hand,  with  the 
sea  playing  a  quiet,  soothing  accompaniment  to  their  thoughts. 
The  storm  was  over.  The  tempest  had  left  behind  the  calm  which 
always  follows  passion.  I  fear  Messrs.  Ginghem,  of  Paternoster  Row, 
London,  would  not  have  been  quite  satisfied  with  Jacob's  last  letter 
if  they  could  have  been  witnesses  of  his  occupation  just  then. 

It  was  a  sunny  summer  evening.  The  dreamy  music  of  the 
ebbing  water  fell  like  balm  upon  the  spirit  It  awakened  sympathetic 
responses  in  two  beating  hearts.  It  was  full  of  a  sweet  solace. 
Lucy's  thoughts  wandered  dreamily  to  London,  where  the  season 
was  throbbing  and  pulsating  and  boiling  up  and  steaming  like  a  hot 
spring.  She  thought  of  herself  sauntering  down  the  Row,  then 
sauntering  home  to  dress  for  dinner,  with  Max  Walton  lingering 
at  her  side,  trying  to  win  his  bet ;  she  saw  herself  being  taken  in 
to  dinner  by  Lord  Folden  ;  she  heard  her  praises  being  sung 
later  on  at  night  by  Lady  Miffits ;  and  she  shuddered  at  the  narrow 
escape  she  had  had  of  a  fashionable  life  in  the  Max  Walton  sense. 
A  little  more  heartlessness,  she  thought,  a  little  less  love  of  Jacob 
and  the  old  days,  and  she  would  have  ridden  straightway  into  the 
thick  of  it ;  a  little  looser  rein,  away  she  would  have  gone,  establish- 
ing herself  on  that  giddy  height  of  vanity  to  which  her  uncle  and 
Max  Walton  would  have  led  her.  She  would  have  outshone  other 
women  both  in  beauty  and  jewels,  until  a  new  belle  came  to  take  the 
town  by  storm,  and  eclipse  her,  and  tear  her  heart  with  jealousy. 
And  what  would  have  become  of  Jacob  Martyn  ? 

The  quiet  music  of  the  ocean  summoned  Jacob's  thoughts  back  to 
Middleton  and  the  cottage  at  Cartown.  There  was  one  transient 
shadow  upon  his  happiness  just  then.  There  was  a  pang  of  regret  in 
the  thought  that  his  father  was  not  living  to  see  the  sunshine  of 
Lucy's  face,  and  to  know  that  his  only  son  was  going  to  be  successful 
and  happy  at  last 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  105 

11  And  you  came  here  quite  by  chance  ?"  said  Lucy,  after  they  had 
walked  a  long  distance  in  a  subdued  happy  silence. 

"  Unless  a  kind  fate,  pitying  my  misery,  brought  me  here,"  says 
Jacob,  looking  into  her  clear,  loving  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  that  is  why  it  led  me  here  first  I  can  never  forgive 
myself  for  doubting  you,  Jacob !  But  I  do  not  think  I  did  quite 
doubt  you.  It  used  to  make  me  very,  very  miserable  to  think  that 
the  day  might  come  when  I  should" 

"We  will  not  speak,  dearest,  of  such  a  possibility.  I  once 
doubted  you,  Lucy,  and  then  I  almost  doubted  our  good  Father 
Himself;  for  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  lost  everything  in  earth  and 

"  My  dear  Jacob!"  said  Lucy,  leaning  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear,  sweet  girl,  you  will  never  know  how  much  I  love 
you ;  and  how  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  the  happiness  of  knowing 
that  you  love  me — you  do,  dear,  don't  you  ?" 

Jacob  liked  to  hear  her  say  so. 

"  Love  you  !  my  own  dear  Jacob  !  But  do  you  lemember  when  I 
was  a  little  coquettish,  when  I  appeared  to  be  angry  at  your  coming 
to  the  cottage  on  a  cleaning  day  ?" 

"  Can  I  ever  forget  any  moment  pf  my  life  spent  with  you  1" 

"  How  Lady  Mary  Miffits  would  stare  to  hear  me  talk  of  a  cleaning 
day.     Poor  dear  1  she  would  not  know  what  I  meant." 

"  Who  is  Lady  Miffits  ?" 

44  No  one  whom  you  know,  dear ;  she  chaperoned  me  through  my 
first  season  in  town,  when  I  was  the  belle.   They  said  I  was  the  belle." 

Lucy  blushed,  and  Jacob,  looking  round  to  see  that  they  had  the 
little  bit  of  bay  quite  to  themselves,  put  his  arm  round  her  waist 
and  kissed  her.  He  was  compensated  for  all  his  misery.  How 
completely  a  long-looked-for,  long-desired  happiness  shuts  out  the 
pain  we  have  suffered  in  reaching  the  prize  !  The  happy  land  that 
once  was  so  far  away,  he  had  reached  it  The  far-off  haven  that 
seemed  impossible  to  win  across  a  sea  of  storm  and  quicksand,  he 
had  gained  the  longed-for  anchorage. 

What  a  story  they  had  to  tell  each  other !  There  were  some 
rounded  clumps  of  rock  in  this  little  bay,  and  the  lovers  sat  down 
to  bill  and  coo  and  talk  and  repeat  their  vows,  and  look  out  upon 
the  sea  where  a  long  streak  of  red  gold  like  a  path  led  the  way  to 
a  land  of  glorious  crimson.  They  were  surprised  to  see  how  soon 
it  faded  out,  the  cold  blue  of  the  east  gaining  intensity  the  while, 
and  showing  at  length  a  marble  moon  wandering  in  a  little  company 
of  twinkling  stars. 

106  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

It  was  late  when  they  returned  to  the  house  on  the  cliffs,  and  Lucy 
was  framing  all  kinds  of  excuses  for  her  uncle.  She  had  no  idea  the 
time  had  gone  so  quickly.  They  had  so  many  things  to  talk  about. 
Jacob  had  been  parted  from  her  so  long  that  she  kept  him  gossiping 
about  a  hundred  things.  She  hoped  uncle  had  not  been  troubled 
about  her  long  absence.  She  had  brought  Mr.  Martyn  to  plead  and 
explain  for  her.  But  the  little  speech  was  not  needed.  The  steamer 
which  had  paddled  out  to  sea  while  they  sat  in  the  little  bay  had  Mr. 
Cavendish  Thornton  on  board. 

"He  left  this  note  for  you,  miss,"  said  Allen,  breathing  hard 
and  staring  at  Jacob.  "It  was-  sudden — master's  going;  but  I 
were  to  say  that  he  left  his  love  for  you  and  Mr.  Martyn,  and  this 

"  Dear  uncle ! "  exclaimed  Lucy  at  this  kind  and  touching  message, 
implying  that  all  her  hopes  and  wishes  were  realised.  Jacob's  heart 
beat  proudly  and  with  a  deep  gratitude.  The  significance  of  the 
message  lifted  him  into  the  skies.  He  had  come  prepared  to  be 
proud  and  firm  and  brave  with  Mr.  Cavendish  Thornton ;  come  pre- 
pared to  justify  himself  in  what  he  conceived  would  be  an  angry 
altercation ;  and  Mr.  Thornton  had  not  only  left  the  field  clear  but 
with  signals  of  amity.    Jacob's  good  star  was  indeed  in  the  ascendant. 

"  My  darling  niece,"  read  Lucy,  through  a  dim  halo  that  gathered 
about  her  eyes,  "  we  have  forgiven  each  other ;  we  will  forget  ail  that 
is  disagreeable  in  the  past ;  but  you  will  never  leave  your  poor  old 
selfish  uncle." 

"My  noble,  good  uncle,  never,"  said  Lucy,  the  mist  gathering 
before  her  eyes  still  more  densely.     "  Read  it  for  me,  Jacob." 

"Desire  Mr.  Martyn,"  continued  Jacob,  reading  the  letter  in  a 
voice  of  emotion,  "  to  follow  me  to  London  in  two  or  three  days ;  I 
have  gone  by  my  favourite  route,  vid  Bristol  by  steamer." 

"We  saw  it  leaving  the  bay,  my  dear  uncle  1"  said  Lucy  between 
her  tears. 

"  Do  not  be  surprised  at  my  sudden  return ;  tell  Mr.  Martyn  it  is  on 
his  account ;  there  are  many  arrangements  to  make.  He  will  give  me 
the  address  of  his  solicitor,  and  we  shall  soon  put  matters  in  proper 
form.  There  is  another  steamer  to  Bristol  in  three  days  from  this,  if 
he  likes  that  route ;  or  he  can  take  the  coach  to  Newport  and  on  to 
Gloucester,  where  he  will  get  a  train.  Tell  him  I  am  very  jealous  of 
him.  If  I  see  that  silly  brother  of  Lord  Folden's,  I  will  put  you 
right  with  him ;  he  never  thought  you  were  very  much  in  earnest" 

"  Poor  Max,"  said  Lucy,  smiling  now  and  looking  a  trifle  archly  at 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  107 

"Who  is  Max,  dear ?"  said  Jacob. 

"  Max  Walton,  the  Honourable  Max  Walton,  sir,"  said  Lucy,  wiping 
away  the  last  traces  of  her  tears,  "  one  of  my  admirers." 

Jacob  smiled,  but  for  a  moment  he  was  jealous;  only  for  a  moment, 
and  then  he  finished  the  letter.  "  Ever,  my  dear  niece,  yours  most 
affectionately,  Cavendish  Thornton.,, 

"  God  bless  him,"  said  Lucy,  at  which  moment  Allen  returned  to' 
say  dinner  was  on  the  table. 

"  Dinner !"  said  Lucy,  in  astonishment. 

"  Unless  you  have  dined,"  said  Allen. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Lucy,  "but" 

Allen  left  the  room. 

"  Have  you  dined  ?"  said  Lucy. 

"  Yes,  on  kisses  without  the  bread  and  cheese  of  the  proverb," 
said  Jacob,  taking  the  dear  sweet  face  in  both  his  big  hands  and 
kissing  the  pouting' lips. 

"  There !  now  that  will  do,  Jacob  dear ;  I  am  going  to  ring  the  bell." 

Allen  returned. 

"Have  the  ladies  dined  ?"  asked  Lucy. 

"  Yes,  miss ;  they  dined  with  Mr.  Thornton,  who  ordered  the  table 
to  be  laid  afresh  for  two,  and  kept  till  you  returned,  miss." 

"Mr.  Martyn,  take  me  in  to  dinner,"  said  Lucy,  taking  Jacob's  arm, 
to  the  disgust  and  astonishment  of  Allen,  who  made  up  his  mind 
there  and  then  to  follow  Mr.  Thornton  to  London  with  all  despatch. 

There  never  was  such  a  delicious  little  dinner ;  never  were  two  diners 
so  happy;  Jacob  could  hardly  believe  that  he  was  not  dreaming. 
When  dessert  was  served,  and  they  were  alone,  Lucy  said,  "  We  must 
talk  about  old  times  to  convince  me  that  the  present  is  reality." 

"  Do  you  remember  that  last  day  at  Cartown,  when  you  made  tea  ?" 
said  Jacob. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  I  do,"  Lucy  replied,  looking  back  at  the  picture  which 
•  at  once  presented  itself  to  her. 

"  And  the  clock  that  would  hurry  on,  and  that  dear  smell  of  tar 
and  the  wood  fire  !" 

"  I  have  thought  of  it  all  thousands  of  times,  dear ;  and  when  you 
were  obliged  to  go  at  last,  and  I  watched  the  lamp  of  the  mail  cart 
until  it  shone  like  a  star  and  then  went  out,  dear,  and  left  me  almost 
broken  hearted" 

Jacob  drew  his  chair  close  to  Lucy's,  and  his  arm  somehow  strayed 
to  her  waist  and  held  her. 

"  Lucy,  dear,  we  will  go  there  as  soon  as  we  can — eh,  love  ?  and 
see  the  dear  old  place,  the  cottage,  the  wood,  that  little  brook,  and 

io8  The  Gentleman! s  Magazine. 

the  apple  tree  under  which  you  stood  in  those  early  days  when  I  was 
dying  of  love  and  dared  not  tell  you." 

"  Yes,  dear ;  and  do  you  remember  the  gipsy  tent,  and  " 

Jacob  started. 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Jacob,  "  nothing ;  I  spent  a  night  or  two  in  the 
encampment,  when  I  went  to  the  cottage  and  found  you  gone." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Lucy ;  "  tell  me  of  it,  love ;  when  was  it  ?" 

"  In  the  winter ;  it  is  not  a  pleasant  memory;  you  shall  hear  the 
story  some  other  time ;  at  present  let  us  only  bask  in  the  sunshine, 
dear ;  we  have  had  enough  of  the  frost  and  snow.  There,  now,  you 
must  drink  one  more  glass  of  this  grand  old  wine ;  and  we  will  clink 
our  glasses  as  Bohemians  do  and  toast  Fortune." 

"  What  would  Allen  say  if  he  saw  us  ?"  said  Lucy,  laughing.  "  I 
fear  we  were  never  intended  for  Mayfair,  Jacob." 

"  There !  I  clink  the  glass  at  the  top,  then  at  the  bottom,  then 
I  say,  « To  Lucy.' " 

"  You  said  we  should  toast  Fortune,"  replied  Lucy,  smiling. 

"  It  is  all  the  same,  dear,"  said  Jacob. 

"  Now  I  must  leave  you  to  your  wine,"  said  Lucy,  rising,  "  and 
prepare  my  companions  for  your  presence  in  the  drawing-room. 
I  have  two  wise  ladies  here  who  assist  me  in  my  studies,  you  know. 
There,  dear,  will  you  have  coffee  here  or  in  the  drawing-room  ?" 

Lucy  looked  round  at  her  lover  with  sparkling  archness.  Jacob's 
only  reply  was  to  kiss  the  mouth  that  asked  the  tantalising  question. 

Coffee  was  speedily  announced,  and  Jacob  followed  Allen  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  he  was  duly  introduced  to  Lucy's  ladies,  whom 
he  found  very  pleasant  and  agreeable.  They  played,  and  sang,  and 
talked  of  lords  and  ladies.  By-and-by  Lucy  sat  down  to  her  harp 
and  sang  the  dear  old  hymn  of  the  early  days ;  and,  with  the  reader's 
permission,  we  will  leave  Jacob  drinking  in  words  and  music  and  all 
their  dear  associations,  and,  when  no  one  observed  him,  quietly  wiping 
away  some  tears  of  joy.  His  sudden  happiness  was  almost  too  much 
for  him. 

(To  be  continued.) 



From  Italy,  hard  upon  the  news  which  told  of  the  death  ot 
Mrs.  Mary  Somerville,  comes  to  me  from  another  lady  of  high 
attainments  and  proud  position  in  the  world  of  letters,  one  of  my 
most  esteemed  correspondents,  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke,  a  sonnet 
touchingly  expressive  of  her  veneration  for  her  aged  sister  in 
literature,  and  doubly  touching  now  that  the  lady  to  whom  the 
lines  were  addressed  six  years  ago  is  dead.  Mrs.  Clarke's  sonnet, 
she  tells  me,  was  laid  by  in  1866,  and  never  reached  the  good  and 
gifted  woman  to  whom  it  was  addressed.  Now,  therefore,  for  the 
first  time,  the  exquisite  lines  see  the  light  I  am  thankful  for  the 
opportunity  of  printing  them  here  as  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  the 
dead  and  a  welcome  memento  of  the  living  : — 



That  head — which  long  among  the  stars  hath  dwelt 

In  thought  sublime  and  speculation  rare, 

In  scientific  knowledge  past  compare, 
In  deep  research  and  questions  that  have  dealt 
With  Nature's  laws  to  make  them  seen  and  felt — 

That  head  now  yields  this  tress  of  still  dark  hair, 

At  sight  of  which,  besprent  with  argent  fair, 
Methought  my  touch'd  imagination  knelt 

It  looks  as  though,  communing  with  the  stars, 
It  had  received  some  beams  of  silv'ry  light, 
Some  reflex  of  Diana's  crescent  white, 

Or  steel-bright  rays  shorn  from  the  crest  of  Mars. 
A  gift  it  is  from  one  endowed  with  lore  divine, 
And  proudly,  gratefully,  I  treasure  it  as  mine. 

Mary  Cowden  Clarke. 
Feb.  26th,  1866. 

no  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

I  have  received  a  second  edition  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Gerald  Molly's 
photographically-illustrated  account  of  "  The  Passion  Play  at  Ober- 
Ammergau  in  the  Summer  of  187 1."  The  book  is  unique  of  its 
kind.  The  story  of  the  play  is  told  with  graphic  force  and  power, 
and  the  illustrations  are  characteristic  memorials  of  the  time.  They 
include  photographs  of  the  leading  actors,  together  with  several 
incidents  of  the  piece.  The  description  of  the  theatre  in  the  open 
air,  "shut  in  by  a  glorious  amphitheatre  of  hills,"  calls  to  mind 
Dickens's  sketch  from  his  window  in  "Pictures  from  Italy."  Within 
a  stone's  throw,  as  it  seems,  the  audience  of  the  day-theatre  sit,  their 
faces  turned  this  way.  But  as  the  stage  is  hidden,  it  is  very  odd, 
without  a  knowledge  of  the  cause,  to  see  their  faces  changed  so 
suddenly  from  earnestness  to  laughter.  At  the  close  of  his  book, 
Dr.  Molly,  after  quoting  sundry  persons  upon  whom  the  Passion  Play 
made  a  deep  and  lasting  impression,  records  his  own  feelings.  He 
went  to  Ober-Ammergau  prejudiced  against  the  Passion  Play;  he 
remained  to  be  "  more  sensibly  impressed  than  ever  he  had  been  by 
any  sermon,  however  eloquent."  Nevertheless,  he  is  not  an  advocate 
for  a  frequent  repetition  of  the  Play,  nor  for  its  extension  beyond  the 
village  which  its  representation  has  made  famous.  "The  peculiar 
combination  of  circumstances  which,  in  the  course  of  many  genera- 
tions, has  brought  it  to  its  present  perfection  in  this  mountain 
hamlet  could  not,  I  think,  be  found  elsewhere  in  the  world ;  nor 
could  they  long  subsist  even  here  without  the  protection  which  is 
afforded  by  its  rare  occurrence." 

The  cruellest  people  in  social  life  are  those  who  are  exacting  in 
the  matter  of  personal  beauty.  Though  professedly  susceptible,  they 
are  by  nature  hard-hearted  and  unimpressionable.  „  They  want 
generosity;  they  are  deficient  in  sympathy;  they  know  nothing  of 
personal  affinity  and  community  of  sentiment.  To  them  facial 
expression,  and  the  colour  that  comes  and  goes  in  forehead  and 
cheek  and  lips,  have  no  meaning  but  the  meaning  of  artistic  effect ; 
and  their  glance,  even  when  it  is  a  glance  of  admiration,  is  devoid  of 
kindness  and  genuine  feeling.  Such  people  are  incapable  of  the  finer 
arts  of  pleasing,  and  they  derive  but  little  pleasure  themselves  in  their 
social  relations.  Their  fastidiousness  amounts  to  partial  blindness  ; 
their  affectation  of  taste  denotes  a  deficiency  of  sensibility.  How 
can  he  enjoy  life  who  is  hard  to  please  by  the  qualities  of  face  and 
figure,  of  voice  and  expression  and  mode  of  speech  of  those  among 
whom  he  moves  ?  What  would  society  be  if  there  were  in  it  no 
charm  for  us  but  the  charm  of  perfection  ? 

Table  Talk.  1 1 1 

Is  it  possible  to  account  for  the  well  known  fact  that  the  particular 
trouble  or  misfortune  with  which  a  man  happens  to  be  struggling  is 
immeasurably  magnified  while  he  is  half  asleep  or  trying  to  sleep  in 
the  night  ?  Everybody  has  had  experience  of  this  very  trying  form 
of  human  misery.  The  sorrow  of  yesterday  piles  itself  mountains 
high  while  we  are  tossing  upon  a  hot  pillow.  The  obstacle  that  has 
to  be  encountered  to-morrow  already  triumphs  over  us.  When  the 
question  is  fairly  considered  this  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  easily 
explained  of  the  phenomena  of  the  dreaming  and  half-dreaming 
state.  Imperfect  sleep  is  not,  apparently,  a  condition  equally  distri- 
buted over  the  faculties.  Our  mind  is,  in  all  probability,  divided 
into  distinct  sections,  somewhat  after  the  fashion  in  which  the 
phrenologists  map  out  the  skull,  and  some  of  these  sections  are  in  a 
state  of  entire  insensibility  while  others  are  partially  active.  So  we 
are  conscious  of  our  trouble,  but  not  of  the  elements  by  which  it  may 
be  qualified.  In  the  anxiety  of  the  day  hope  has,  perhaps,  borne  but 
a  very  small  share,  and  hope,  therefore,  takes  its  rest  in  the  usual  way 
at  night  and  plays  no  part  in  the  disturbed  working  of  the  mind. 
Hence  the  difficulty  has  to  be  encountered  when  the  mind  is  in  the 
condition  in  which  it  would  be  in  its  waking  time  if  the  quality  of 
hope  were  wholly  withheld.  We  must  wait,  however,  for  a  great 
advance  in  the  science  of  psychology  before  we  can  set  down  a 
precise  theory  of  sleep  and  dreams. 

An  altogether  new  experience  to  most  Englishmen  would  be  a  day 
and  night  at  Land's  End  when  the  windblows  in  winter.  The  finest 
description  of  a  hurricane  ever  written  is  that  in  "  David  Copperfield," 
in  which  the  hero  travels  down  to  Yarmouth  just  before  the  shipwreck 
of  Steerforth ;  but  the  invisible  element  rages  under  a  different  set  of 
conditions  in  West  Cornwall  There  is  a  good,  sturdy  breadth  of 
land  at  the  back  of  the  east  coast,  but  at  Sennen  there  is  nothing  but 
the  mad  ocean  on  three  sides,  and  a  strip  of  barren  flat  on  the  fourth. 
So  there  the  howling  storm  rushes  over  the  bit  of  granite  earth 
unresisted,  never  losing  force  for  an  instant  in  its  passage.  In  inland 
England  we  are  astonished  when  the  wind  is  troublesome  to  fight 
against.  We  can  hardly  believe  the  evidence  of  our  senses  if  it  stops 
our  locomotion.  At  Land's  End  there  is  no  better  recognised  reality 
than  the  uncompromising  power  of  the  wind.  Everybody  shuns  it. 
Nobody  expects  to  come  off"  master  in  a  conflict  with  it  The  natives 
try  to  cheat  it  They  make  short  catches  of  runs  from  post  to  dwarf- 
wall  during  a  momentary  lull.  They  throw  themselves  down  flat  to 
prevent  being  carried  off"  their  feet.      The  wind  tears  their  loose 

ii2  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

clothes  off  them,  and  whips  them  into  shreds  with  their  strings  and 
ribbons.  If  they  lose  guard  or  shelter  when  the  gust  comes  it 
dashes  them  against  the  first  obstacle  and  bruises  them.  There  is  a 
village  population  at  Sennen,  in  the  centre  of  the  point  of  land, 
who  grow  terribly  serious  when  the  winter  is  coming  on.  They 
talk  of  their  life  as  one  of  bitter  hardship  because  of  that  awful 
season.  Strong,  hale,  and  enduring  as  they  are,  they  are  not,  in 
their  hearts,  inured  to  these  conditions  of  life.  They  are  not,  like 
the  Laplanders  or  the  Greenlanders,  part  and  parcel  of  the  country 
in  which  they  live.  The  Cornishman  is  a  thinking  being,  ready  at 
drawing  comparisons  of  his  lot  with  that  of  his  fellow-countrymen 
in  better  latitudes,  and  he  tells  the  story  of  his  misery  with  deplor- 
able earnestness.  His  houses  and  huts  are  made  chiefly  of  granite ; 
but  the  wind,  though  it  cannot  tear  them  to  pieces,  has  its  revenge 
upon  them.  It  fills  them  with  a  roar  and  racket  which  deprives 
home  of  all  its  peace  and  comfort  The  windows  are  nailed  up  in 
winter  to  save  them  from  being  shaken  to  fragments.  A  plug  is 
jammed  into  every  hole  and  cranny.  Doors  are  fixed  in  order  that 
they  may  not  be  knocked  out  of  their  frames.  Indeed,  the  one  busi- 
ness of  winter  is  to  hold  on  for  dear  life  till  the  brief  summer  comes 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  the  talent  for  oral  story-telling 
diminishes  with  the  extension  of  reading  and  the  growth  of  literature. 
Not  the  same  necessity  exists  as  of  old  for  the  preservation  of  the 
details  of  a  narrative  in  the  memory,  and  there  is  a  general  tendency 
in  human  nature  to  avoid  a  needless  exercise  of  the  faculties.  Thus 
it  is  that  every  year  the  men  who  can  tell  good  stories  grow  fewer. 


Some  have  a  natural  bent  that  way,  but  even  they  do  not  cultivate 
the  gift  after  the  manner  of  those  who  went  before  them.  They 
perhaps  have  something  of  an  advantage  in  naturalness,  but  they 
lose  a  little  in  skill.  It  is  not  the  practice  now  to  preserve  the  exact 
words  and  identical  points  of  a  narration.  The  incidents  are  not 
repeated  in  precisely  the  same  form.  The  story-tellers  of  a  past  gene- 
ration knew  their  tales  by  heart,  and  recited  them  with  all  the  exact- 
ness with  which  the  same  actor  would  repeat,  night  after  night,  the 
words,  the  accent,  the  emphasis,  and  the  tone  of  a  famous  soliloquy. 
It  was  reserved  for  a  particular  syllable,  pronounced  in  a  particular 
manner,  to  send  a  shudder  through  the  audience,  to  raise  their 
expectancy  to  the  highest  tension,  or  to  call  forth  irresistible  laughter. 
By  abundant  testimony,  aided  in  some  measure  by  the  recollections 
of  a  generation  now  passing  away,  we  know  that  these  were  "the  ' 

Table  Talk.  113 

characteristics  of  the  old  story-tellers  of  social  life,  and  by  evidence 
enough  we  are  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  the  race  is  dying  out 
Shall  they  be  regretted  ?  Well,  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that  there  is 
much  to  regret  in  things  that  are  passing  away ;  it  remains  to  be 
considered  what  are  the  compensations. 

It  is  a  question  whether  it  is  possible  for  imagination  to  invent  a 
person  bearing  all  the  physical  marks  of  personal  identity.  If  the 
novel  writer  were  really  able  to  accomplish  this  feat,  he  would  afford 
great  satisfaction  to  ordinary  mortals,  by  explaining  the  phenomena ; 
and  he  would  perform  a  still  greater  service  if  he  would  so  place  his 
characters  on  paper  as  to  enable  the  reader  to  see  the  imaginary  per- 
sonages with  his  mental  eye.  The  intellectual  and  moral  characters 
of  fictitious  heroes  and  heroines  are  perceived  clearly  enough,  but  not 
so  clearly  their  minute  physical  peculiarities.  The  reader  does  not 
fail  to  remember  that  the  figure  is  tali  or  short,  erect  or  bending, 
with  eyes,  hair,  and  complexion,  dark  or  light.  But  if  in  real  life  there 
were  only  such  items  as  these  for  sight  to  seize  hold  of,  people  would 
not  recognise  their  friends  and  acquaintances.  If  any  one  thinks 
that  in  a  work  of  imagination  a  person  rises  up  whom  the  reader, 
or  even  the  writer,  would  recognise  if.  it  were  possible  to  meet  him 
in  the  flesh,  let  him  consider  what  remarkably  divergent  presentments 
artists  have  made  of  famous  imaginary  beings.  There  are  as  many 
different  Venuses,  Niobes,  Madonnas,  and  Helens  as  there  are 
original  painters  or  sculptors.  Some  characters  gain  a  personal 
identity  by  means  of  a  particular  portrait,  as  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Pickwick, 
with  jwhom  the  late  Mr.  Seymour  made  the  world  so  well  acquainted 
that  we  should  identify  him  in  a  crowd.  But  that  was  Mr.  Seymour's 
Pickwick,  adopted  gladly  enough  by  Dickens.  Does  anybody  fancy 
that  Seymour's  Pickwick  lived  in  the  mental  eye  of  the  author  of  the 
"Posthumous  Papers"  before  the  figure  had  ever  been  drawn  on 
paper  by  the  pencil  of  the  caricaturist  ?  That  is  a  delusion.  The 
figure  is  a  very  happy  conversion  of  an  author's  into  an  artist's 
sketch— one  of  the  happiest,  perhaps,  ever  executed — but  if  we 
owe  the  character  to  the  writer,  we  owe  the  physical  individuality  to 
the  artist  

The  new  year  is  to  see  the  birth  of  an  addition  to  the  daily  press  of 

London.     For  many  years  the  Standard  held  the  proud  position  of 

the  Conservative  organ,  unchallenged  and  without  competition.    The 

rise  and  progress  of   the   paper  is  in  itself  quite  a  romance  of 

journalism.     The  proprietor,  Mr.  Johnstone,  deserves  the  highest 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  1 

ii4  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

commendation  for  his  enterprise  and  his  zeal.  For  a  long  time  he 
fought  an  up-hill  fight,,  and  he  fought  it  well.  Victory  crowned  his 
efforts,  as  victory  always  crowns  perseverance  and  courage.  The 
Standard  now  gives  the  proprietor  a  princely  income.  He  can  afford 
to  encounter  opposition ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  growing  popu- 
larity of  moderate  opinions  and  the  gradual  fading  away  of  Mr. 
Gladstone's  majority  seem  to  offer  an  opening  for  a  new  Constitutional 
paper.  Two  gentlemen  of  considerable  journalistic' capacity  are 
retiring  from  the  Standard,  and  a  north-country  newspaper,  which 
seems  to  be  well  informed,  says  theyjare  to  be  the  head  and  front  of 
the  new  journal.  The  Conservative  party  rarely  encourages  its  organs 
in  the  press,  much  less  does  it  support  them ;  but  in  the  present 
case,  my  northern  friend  says,  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
Conservative  sovereigns  are  ready  to  back  this  new  enterprise.  Some 
noughts  may  be  taken  off  these  figures,  I  fancy.  But  there  seems 
no  reason  to  doubt  the  coming  paper,  even  if  we  sigh  in  vain  for  the 
coming  man.  Various  other  enterprises  are  spoken  of  for  the  new 
year,  into  the  portals  of  which  we  are  just  stepping.  I  turn  over 
my  new  blotting  pad,  set  out  the  new  date,  and  wish  them  and  my 
readers  all  the  success  and  prosperity  which  merit,  courage,  and  true 
ability  are  entitled  to  hope  for  and  expect. 

There  are  just  now  many  indications  of  the  growth  of  a  higher 
and  purer  taste  in  dramatic  art  than  has  latterly  marked  the  history 
of  the  stage.  One  of  my  contributors  in  the  Gentleman's  Annual 
lias  done  full  justice  to  the  situation.  In  changes  of  all  kinds  mis- 
takes will  necessarily  occur.  The  better  days  are  discounted  tpefore 
Reform  has  done  her  work,  and  men  incapable  of  forming  a  sound 
judgment  of  things  too  often  step  forth  to  guide  the  times.  The 
management  of  the  Queen's  and  the  Holborn  Theatres  have  shown 
a  desire  to  interpret  the  better  taste  of  the  day,  and  minister 
to  the  higher  hopes  and  desires  of  playgoers.  -',-..  The  one 
has  produced  "Cromwell,"  the  other  "Lost  and  Found,"  both 
by  men  of  literary  capacity ;  but  neither  of  them  giving  evidence 
of  dramatic  genius.  These  two  plays  are  the  closing  failures  of  the 
year.  The  management  of  the  two  houses,  and  not  the  authors,  are 
responsible  for  this.  Colonel  Richards's  play  of  "  Cromwell "  is  a 
fine  dramatic  poem,  but  quite  unfit  for  the  stage.  If  some  of  our 
popular  authors  would  only  condescend  to  work  side  by  side  with 
some  of  our  best  actors  or  most  experienced  stage  managers,  there 
would  be  fewer  bad  plays  and  many  more  successful  playwrights. 

Table  Talk.  115 

"  Every  Englishman  at  heart,"  said  Sir  John  Lubbock  lately  to  his 
constituents  at  Maidstone,  "  would  rather  fight  out  our  quarrels,  and 
regards  arbitration  as  a  cold  or  even  rather  sneaking  resolution  of 
international  difficulties.  I  plead  guilty  to  this  feeling  myself."  The 
confession  strikes  me  as  somewhat  rash  for  a  philosopher,  and  a  little 
hazardous,  coming  so  soon  after  the  lesson  of  the  war  of  1870,  which 
I  thought  at  the  time,  watching  closely  the  feelings  of  my  fellow- 
countrymen,  led  a  great  many  people  to  think  that  war  was  a  thing 
that  civilised  nations  might  well  begin  to  be  ashamed  of.  In  the 
interests  of  philosophy,  however,  if  not  of  peace,  I  am  rather  glad  to 
find  this  distinguished  ethnologist  acknowledging  this  particular 
weakness ;  for  is  he  not  in  so  much  the  better  position  to 
probe  the  tendency  to  strife  which  remains  within  so  many  of  us, 
coming  to  us  as  it  does  from  the  blood  of  our  forefathers,  the  savages 
about  whom  Sir  John  Lubbock  speculates  so  sagely  ?  Masters  of 
moral  philosophy  are  sometimes  at  fault  for  lack  of  the  weaknesses 
within  themselves  which  beset  their  fellow  men.  This  is  clearly  not 
Sir  John  Lubbock's  case  in  so  far  as  the  barbarian  instincts  are 

GRANT   AND  ro„    WUNTKRS,   72-7S,    Tl':<VM!H     nTRKPT,    FX. 


Gentleman's  Magazine 

February,  1873. 

Stranger  than  Fiction. 





Jacob's  departure  for  London  was  accelerated,  and  his  route 
thither  somewhat  changed,  by  a  letter  which  he  received  at  Neath- 
ville  from  Paul  Ferris,  better  known  to  my  readers  as  Spenzonian 
Whiffler.  This  letter  had  been  re-directed  from  Dinsley  by  Mr.  Wind- 
gate  Williams,  who  had  traced  upon  the  back  of  it  some  wonderful 
flashes  of  wit  and  caligraphy  for  Jacob's  edification. 

Spen's  letter  was  brief.  It  informed  Jacob  that  the  theatre  being 
closed  for  a  short  season  he  had  taken  a  holiday,  and  was  to  be 
heard  of  for  three  days  only  at  the  Blue  Posts  Hotel,  Cartown,  where 
we  find  Jacob  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day  following  his  blissful 
time  with  Lucy  Thornton. 

"You  must  be  awfully  tired,"  said  Spen,  emerging  from  the  dingy 
coffee-room  of  the  "Posts,"  and  shaking  his  old  friend  warmly  by 
both  hands. 

"  I  am,  old  boy.  I  have  had  a  long  journey,  but  the  sight  of  your 
good,  kind  face  is  as  good  as  a  glass  of  champagne." 

"  Waiter,  send  in  the  supper  I  ordered  as  soon  as  you  can,"  said 

"All  right,  sir;  the  cook's  attending  to  it" 

"And  now  Jacob,"  said  Spen,  "sit  down  and  tell  us  all  about 

yourself.    By  Jove,  I  have  experienced  the  strangest  heap  of  sensations 

yesterday  and  to-day  that  ever  afflicted  mortal  man.    I've  been  in 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  k 

1 1 8  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

a  perpetual   whirl   of  excitement,  anxiety,  fear,  happiness,  depres- 
sion, misery,  and  bliss.,, 

"You  have  indeed  been  enjoying  yourself,"  said  Jacob,  smiling. 
-"  How  long  has  it  taken  to  go  through  so  much  ?"   / 

■"  Two  days,  my  dear  boy  ;  only  two  days.  I  seem  to  have  lived 
"half  a  century  in  that  time.  Apart  from  the  immediate  sensations  of 
the  present,  my  mind  has  been  wandering  in  the  past  I  have  been 
tumbling  and  somersault  throwing,  in  imagination,  down  Spawling's 
garden ;  mixing  Indian  ink  at  the  pump,  thrashing  that  big  fellow 
from  the  country  with  the  greasy  dinner-bag;  dodging  Dorothy 
^upstairs  and  downstairs  and  in  my  lady's  chamber;  doing  mock 
•heroics  among  autumn  leaves  between  here  and  a  famous  cottage  at 
Cartown;  wondering  all  sorts  of  things  about  you  and  Lucy;  and, 
above  all,  falling  desperately  in  love  myself,  and  ready  and  willing  at 
this  moment  to  go  through  the  last  act  with  real  properties.  But 
it  is  like  me.  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  all  about  yourself,  and  proceed 
at  once  to  give  you  my  own  history.  When  you  know  all,  you 
will  forgive  my  wretched  egotism,  and  laugh  at  my  miscellaneous 
sensations.  But  we  are  all  strange  creatures  of  impulse,  and  there 
.does  seem  such  a  magic  in  this  old  town  of  our  boyhood,  that  I  must ' 
t>e  forgiven  if  I  am  not  quite  myself  here." 

Spen  thrust  his  hands  deep  down  into  his  pockets,  then  removed 
•them,  stood  up,  sat  down,  looked  at  the  ceiling,  warmed  himself 
at  an  imaginary  fire  (which  summer  had  covered  up  with  paper, 
shavings),  patted  Jacob  on  the  back,  and  called  him  a  "dear  old 
boy,"  and  exhibited  many  other  signs  of  the  excitement  of  which 
lie  had  spoken. 

Supper  was  brought  in  while  the  two  young  fellows  conversed,  but 
it  did  little  to  interrupt  their  animated  intercourse.  Whenever  an 
opportunity  occurred  Jacob  told  Spen  of  his  troubles  and  triumphs,  and 
Spen  threw  in  at  every  opportunity  snatches  of  his  own  experiences, 
which  in  their  way  were  strange  and  interesting,  but  neither  so  varied 
*ior  so  romantic  as  Jacob's.  Spen  had  been  hard  at  theatrical  work 
for  years.  His  stories  were  of  patient  study  at  home,  drudgery  at 
rehearsals,  and  hard  work  before  the  footlights;  leading  gradually 
up  to  that  brilliant  success  of  which  we  have  previously  heard.  He 
told  Jacob  that  there  was  much  less  of  sentiment  and  Tomance  in  a 
theatrical  career  than  the  public  understood.  Success  demanded 
very  much  more  drudgery  and  labour  than  was  generally  imagined. 
Details  of  dress,  of  manner,  studies  of  look,  gesture,  walk,  pose,  and  a 
variety  of  apparently  small  things  made  up  the  grand  whole  of  an 
.actor's  art.     But  Spen  was  not  willing,  evidently,  to  say  much 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  119 

about  his  theatrical  career.  His  talk  was  chiefly  of  the  past,  of  their 
first  meeting,  and  of  the  early  days  of  Cartown  school.  But  the 
more  exciting  portions  of  his  talk  were  associated  with  a  young 
lady  whom  he  called  a  divine  creature,  a  glorious  girl,  a  superb 
woman,  and  other  endearing  and  descriptive  names — a  young  lady 
whom  he  had  seen  come  out  of  the  old  school-house  on  the  previous 
day  with  two  little  girls  and  a  boy ;  the  most  gentle,  gracious,  fasci- 
nating little  witch  he  had  ever  seen  in  all  his  career,  professionally 
and  non-professionally.  He  had  followed  her  over  a  well-known 
path,  and  in  fun  had  helped  the  children  to  gather  wild  flowers. 

"  Only  in  fun,  my  dear  boy,  so  far  as  they  were,  concerned,  but 
in  desperate  earnest  on  my  own  part!  What  fools  we  are!  Here 
was  I,  years  ago,  in  a  rural  paradise,  with  real  flowers  and  brooks 
and  woods,  real  valleys,  real  autumn  tints  and  summer  breezes, 
sighing  for  gaslight  and  paint,  canvas  meadows,  mock  thunder,  and  a 
hollow  fame.  It  seemed  to  me  yesterday  as  if  I  would  give  the 
world  to  live  out  the  remainder  of  my  life  among  the  old  real  scenes; 
but  the  desire,  I  must  confess,  was  immensely  promoted  by  the  hope 
of  a  fairy  partnership  with  Titania,  my  fairy  queen  of  yesterday. 
You  will  say  I  have  become  a  romantic  fellow  in  my  years  of 
discretion.  I  suppose  I  have  been  so  long  mewed  up  among  London 
bricks  and  mortar  that  the  country  takes  my  reason  prisoner." 

Jacob  was  more  astonished  now  at  the  change  which  had  taken 
place  in  Spen  than  he  had  been  while  conversing  with  his  old  friend 
in  London.  Although  the  merriman  of  the  Cartown  school  had  lost 
none  of  his  animal  spirits,  yet  the  real  fun  and  frolic  of  the  old  days 
were  wanting.  Nobody  would  certainly  have  taken  him  for  the 
funny  man  of  a  theatrical  company.  His  face,  it  is  true,  had  that 
peculiar,  sallow,  closely-shaven  look  which  characterises  the  profession 
generally;  but  there  were  strong  lines  in  it  which  one  would  be  more 
likely  to  associate  with  tragedy  than  comedy,  except  when  the  face 
was  lighted  up  by  some  quaint  conceit,  and  then  there  was  something 
essentially  humorous  in  its  peculiar,  dry  expression. 

"  Now,  Spen,  let  us  talk  seriously.  Drop  this  fictitious  kind  of 
personal  confession.  Let  us  get  out  of  romance.  Have  you  really 
ever  thought  of  marrying? 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  have,"  said  Spen,  with  a  grave  twinkle  of  the  eye. 
"  I  thought  of  it  for  the  first  time  yesterday,  and  I  have  thought 
about  nothing  else  until  your  arrival  this  evening." 

"  Ah !  You  will  have  your  joke,"  said  Jacob,  laughing.  "  Earnest 
conjugal  ambition  is  not  so  sudden  as  that" 

11  Honour  bright,"  said  Spen,  "  I  am  in  real  earnest,  and  you  shall 

x  2 

1 20  The  Gentleman* s  Magazine. 

see  the  lady  of  my  choice  in  the  morning.  I  could  not  endure  the 
general  notions  of  courtship  and  matrimony.  If  I  take  a  fancy  to 
anything  I  must  have  it  at  once.  There  is  no  hesitation  about  my 
character.  You  shall  see,  and  I  never  yet  made  a  mistake  in  reading 
the  face  of  man  or  woman." 

The  night  soon  came  to  these  long-severed  friends,  and  early  in 
the  morning  they  were  out  among  the  old  haunts,  fraught  to  them 
with  so  many  happy  and  peculiar  associations.  Passing  through  the 
churchyard  Jacob  noticed  a  simple  granite  column  marking  the  spot 
where  Spen  had  told  him  in  the  old  days  that  the  dead  clown's  ghost 
had  rebuked  him  for  his  ingratitude.  At  the  base  the  grass  had  grown 
up,  making  a  pretty  natural  fringe  of  green  beneath  the  simple  word, 
"  Petroski." 

A  bee  dangling  in  the  bell  of  a  kingcup  close  by  made  a  drowsy 
hum,  which  added  to  the  softening  influence  and  repose  of  the  scene. 
"  Ah !  you  have  a  noble  heart/'  said  Jacob,  turning  upon  Spen 
affectionately.     "  How  long  has  this  monument  been  here  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Spen,  "  two  or  three  years,  I  suppose.  Poor  dear 
old  Pet.  I  should  have  liked  Hamlet's  words  about  Yorick  under- 
neath the  dear  boy's  name,  but  the  churchwardens  objected.  They 
did  not  like  quotations  from  Shakespeare  on  gravestones,  they  said; 
it  was  contrary  to  their  rule.  Perhaps  it  is  better  as  it  is.  Poor 
Petroski !" 

Jacob's  heart  smote  him  bitterly  when  he  remembered  that  there 
was  one  far  dearer  to  him  than  Petroski  was  to  Spen,  who  might  at 
that  moment  be  lying  beneath  the  sod  unrecorded  on  the  stone  above 
for  aught  he  knew. 

When  first  he  left  Middleton,  cursing  the  place  and  his  own 
wretched  destiny,  he  thought  he  would  come  quietiy  back  at 
intervals  and  lay  a  flower  upon  that  grave  which  had  closed  over 
all  the  blood-relationship  which  seemed  to  exist  for  him  in  this 
world;  but  time  wore  on,  and  he  was  content  to  sit  down 
now  and  then  with  his  memories  and  to  pay  his  tribute  of  flowers  in 
imagination.  But  his  heart  rebuked  him  now  at  sight  of  the  tall 
column  pointing  upwards  from  the  grave  of  Petroski. 

"  You  are  sad,  my  boy,"  said  Spen.  "  You  remind  me  of  that  time 
in  the  autumn  when  I  told  you  I  would  make  a  hit  on  the  stage. 
Come,  we  must  have  no  clouds  in  the  sunshine  of  this  day.  See, 
yonder  is  the  old  school;  the  bell  is  already  ringing,  the  boys  are 
slinking  through  the  dear  old  doorway  with  their  long-eared  books  and 
their  greasy  dinner-bags.  Ah !  they  are  a  different  lot  to  those 
whom  we  knew.    The  boots  at  the  "Posts"  tells  me  that  the  boys  get 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  121 

different  treatment  to  that  which  we  received  at  the  hands  of  Spawling, 
and  those  lads  yonder  seem  to  have  had  all  the  sprightliness  of  life 
whipped  out  of  them." 

They  stood  for  some  time  gazing  at  the  well-known  school-house. 
Presently  they  went  behind  the  building  to  reconnoitre.  They  hid 
themselves  in  the  garden  to  watch  the  schoolmaster  go  forth  to  his 
duties.  They  had  hardly  sheltered  themselves  when  a  scantily  clothed 
child  knocked  at  the  door,  which  was  opened  by  an  elderly  woman 
with  stiff  grey  curls  hanging  down  each  cheek  and  clustering  about  a 
pair  of  spectacles  that  were  supported  by  a  thin  bony  nose,  slightly 
red  at  the  extremity. 

"Good  heavens  !"  exclaimed  Jacob,  clutching  Spen's  arm. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Spen  in  a  whisper. 

"  Matter?"  exclaimed  Jacob,  "  by  all  that's  miserable,  it  is  my  Aunt 

"The  devil!"  said  Spen. 

"  No,  not  exactly  that,  but  certainly  Mrs.  Gompson." 

"Mon  dim!  The  old  griffin  you  used  to  tell  me  of.  Well, 
keep  quiet" 

"  Buy  a  few  pegs  or  laces !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gompson,  surveying  the 
half  naked  urchin  from  uncovered  head  to  naked  feet ;  "  certainly  not. 
Nothing  of  the  kind." 

"They're  very  cheap,  mum." 

*  Cheap  !    Where  do  you  live,  child  ?" 

"  Down  the  lane,  please  mum." 

"  Down  the  lane,  eh  !  Gipsy  child — I  thought  so.  Gipsy  child, 
listen  to  me.  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  go  about  imposing  on  people 
in  this  way,  endeavouring  to  injure  the  honest  tradesman  who  pays 
rent  and  taxes  by  underselling  him  in  the  matter  of  pegs  and  laces 
and  other  merchandise?" 

"  Please,  mum,  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it,"  said  the  little  child,  look- 
ing up  out  of  a  pair  of  black,  sympathetic  eyes. 

"  Oh !  you  didn't  mean  to  do  it.     We  shall  see.     Why  does  not 
your  mother  dress  you  before  she  sends  you  out?    I  declare  it's 
perfectly  shocking !"  said  Mrs.  Gompson,  surveying  the  well-shapen, . 
naked  legs  which  stood  firmly  and  with  a  natural  grace  upon  the 

"  Please,  mum,  I  haven't  no  mother." 

"  Oh  !  you  haven't  no  mother !  Why,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself.  How  dare  you  go  about  the  streets  and  lanes  without  any 
mother?    And  pray,  have  you  no  father?" 

"  No,  mum." 

122  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"Ah  !  well,  you're  none  the  worse  off  for  that;  and  you  can't  help 
having  no  mother.  I  dare  say  you'll  try  to  make  out  that  you  have 
been  a  stolen  child,  to  excite  sympathy,  and  impose  upon  the  bene- 
volent and  tender-hearted,  eh? — the  charitable  and  philanthropic 
people  who  endow  beggary  and  roguery.  Do  you  know  what  philan- 
thropy is  ?" 

"  No,  mum  ;  please,  mum." 

"  Ah  !  I  dare  say  you  don't  even  know  your  alphabet.  I  dare  say 
you  think  it's  something  to  eat" 

"I  don't  know,  mum,  please;  but  will  you  buy — some — 
pegs  ?" 

"  No,  child,  certainly  not.  Miss  Winthorpe — Edith,  I  say !"  shouted 
Mrs.  Gompson,  turning  her  head  into  the  house ;  whereupon  Jacob 
gave  further  signs  of  excitement  and  agitation,  such  as  had  almost 
attracted  the  griffin  eyes  of  Aunt  Keziah  to  the  gooseberry  bushes. 

"  What's  the  matter  now  ?"  asked  Spen,  in  a  whisper. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Jacob,  in  reply.  "  Fate  is  only  having  a  lark 
with  us,  as  Windgate  Williams  would  say.  Let  the  magician  go  on  : — 
let  the  play  be  played  out." 

"All  right,"  whispered  Spen.  "Miss  Winthorpe  has  her  cue; 
don't  interrupt  her." 

A  young  lady  in  a  light  morning  dress  came  to  the  door. 

"  Edith,  by  all  that's  good  and  beautiful !"  said  Jacob. 

"  My  angel !  my  angel !"  said  Spen.  "  My  Titania  !  The  lady  I 
told  thee  of." 

"Do  keep  quiet,  Spen,"  said  Jacob;  "we  shall  be  discovered." 

"You  make  more  noise  than  I  do,"  replied  Spen;  "keep  quiet 
yourself;  you  are  almost  shaking  the  leaves  off  that  tree." 

"  Mary,  Mary,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gompson,  looking  straight  in  die 
direction  of  Jacob.  "Those  cats  are  among  the  gooseberry  bushes 
again.  Go  and  drive  them  away,  every  berry  will  be  shaken  off; 
we  shall  not  have  gooseberries  to  make  a  tart  of,  much  more  for 

"  Now  you  have  done  it,"  whispered  Spen ;  "  here's  a  go.  I  will 
frighten  her  into  fits  if  she  comes." 

Spen  pushed  back  his  hat,  lifted  up  his  collar,  dropped  his  jaw,  and 
struck  a  most  strange  and  idiotic  attitude,  which  convulsed  Jacob 
with  silent  laughter.  The  change  was  as  rapid  as  it  was  grotesque. 
The  face  was  quite  a  psychological  triumph.  Jacob  was  at  once 
carried  back  to  his  early  meeting  with  Spen.  He  laughed  several 
big  berries  to  the  ground  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  control  himself. 
Fortunately,   however,   Mary  was   making  bread,  and  it   was    not 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  12  j 

convenient  for  her  toleave  the  dough  in  which  she  was  plunged  up  to 
her  elbows.  The  comedy  was  therefore  not  so  abruptly,  closed  as  the 
two  friends  in  the  garden  had  feared  it  might  be. 

"Miss  Winthorpe, "  said  Mrs.  Gompson,  "bring  Miss  Grace 
Wilmott  and  Masters  Barnby  and  Trundleton  here." 

At  Edith's  bidding  three  children  under  ten  came  to  the  door. 

"  Now,  Miss  Wilmott  and  Masters  Barnby  and  Trundleton,"  said 
Mrs.  Gompson,  surveying  them  with  pride  and  authority,  "I  wish 
you  to  teach  each  other  a  little  lesson.     Little  gipsy  girl" 

"  Yes,  mum." 

"  Do  you  see  this  nice  happy  well-dressed  young  lady  and  young 

"Yes,  mum." 

"  This  happiness  and  luxury  is  the  fruit  not  only  of  good  breeding, 
but  of  good  citizenship  and  education.  Bear  that  in  mind,  will  you?" 

"  Yes,  mum,"  said  the  little  hawker,  beginning  to  cry. 

"  I  thought  that  would  affect  your  hardened  little  heart  Now 
Miss  Grace  Wilmott  and  Masters  Barnby  and  Trundleton,  you  see 
this  ragged,  dirty  little  child?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  three  in  a  falsetto  chorus. 

"  That  matted  hair  is  the  result  of  bad  citizenship,  loose  habits, 
non-attendance  at  church,  the  want  of  knowing  a-b,  ab,  and  c-o-w, 
cow,  and  other  rudiments  of  learning,  which  lead  up  to  an  acquaint- 
ance  with  the  abstruse  sciences.    Will  you  remember  that?" 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Gompson,"  said  the  chorus  again. 

"  Very  well,  that  is  what  I  call  a  practical  lesson  of  life,  a  true 
system  of  teaching  social  economy  and  the  rights  and  advantages  of 
good  citizenship.  Gipsy  girl,  here  is  a  penny  for  you.  You  may 
go  and  never  come  here  again." 

"  Yes,  mum ;"  and  the  child,  with  her  eyes  bent  on  the  ground, 
went  meekly  one  way,  while  Mrs.  Gompson  marched  pompously  in 
another  direction  leading  to  the  school,  satisfied  that  she  had  done 
her  duty  and  at  the  same  time  been  guilty  of  a  little  womanly  weak- 
ness is  supporting*  vagrancy  with  her  purse. 

The  griffin  had  hardly  turned  away  before  Edith  shut  the  door 
hurriedly  and  Spen  darted  off  after  the  little  black-eyed  hawker. 
Jacob  thought  it  best  to  remain  where  he  was,  and  hold  a  council  of 
war  with  himself. 

In  a  few  moments  Spen,  however,  beckoned  him  with  both  hands. 
Jacob  hastened  to  his  friend. 

"Such  an  adventure!"  exclaimed  Spen,  his  sallow  face  glowing, 
with  animation. 

1 24  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 


"Well,  well,  what  is  it?" 

"  I  had  just  caught  the  poor  little  beggar  at  the  same  time  that 
Titania  swooped  down  upon  her. 

"Who?  who?" 

"  Titania — Flora — Dorcas — Hebe — Miranda — heaven  knows  what 
her  proper  name  is — Edith  you  call  her.  She  had  hurried  out  of  the 
front  door  to  give  the  child  money,  and,  by  the  Lord !  I've  kissed  her. 
Now,  it  is  no  good  frowning  on  a  fellow ;  I  couldn't  help  it.  She's 
my  fate,  and,  by  Jupiter !  she  shall  go  back  to  London  with  me  !" 

When  Spen's  boisterous  declarations  were  somewhat  subdued, 
Jacob  told  him  all  he  knew  of  Edith,  and  ventured  to  predict 
that  she  had  been  induced  to  leave  home  and  take  a  situation  as 
teacher  owing  to  the  unkind  treatment  and  jealousy  of  her  sisters. 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  ? "  said  Spen,  his  eyes  full  of 
astonishment  and  wonder. 

"  To  take  you  into  the  dear  old  house,  my  boy,  and,  if  you  are 
willing,  introduce  you  formally  to  your  fate." 

"Willing!"  exclaimed  Spen  with  theatrical  action  and  fervour. 
"  Away,  away !  my  soul's  in  arms,  and  eager  for  the  fray." 



"  On  second  thoughts,  Spen,  you  had  better  let  me  see  the  lady 
alone,"  said  Jacob,  when  the  two  were  on  the  threshold  of  the  well- 
known  front  door. 

"  My  own  thought,  with  a  but,"  said  Spen. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  but ?    Go  on,  nwn  ami" 

"Perhaps  it  is  only  'much  ado  about  nothing ;'  but  you  will 
remember  Claudio's  lines : — 

Friendship  is  constant  in  all  other  things 

Save  in  the  office  and  affairs  of  love ; 

Therefore,  all  hearts  in  love  use  their  own  tongues ; 

Let  every  eye  negotiate  for  itself, 

And  trust  no  agent :  for  beauty  is  a  witch, 

Against  whose  charms  faith  melteth  into  blood." 

"  Is  it  come  to  this,  i'  faith  ?"  said  Jacob,  smiling. 

"It  was  the  flat  transgression  of  the  schoolboy,  that  being 
overjoyed  with  finding  a  bird's  nest,  he  showed  it  to  his  companion, 
who  stole  it" 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  125 

"  Fie  !  fie  !  Benedict's  philosophy  does  not  apply  here.  Edith  is 
not  in  mine  eye  '  the  sweetest  lady  that  e'er  I  look'd  upon ;'  she  has 
only  a  second  place." 

"  There  thou  strikest  home.  But  art  thou  quite  sure  that  all  is 
settled  between  thee  and  thy  woodland  Venus  ?" 

"  What !  Lucy  ?"  said  Jacob,  laughing  at  the  grotesque  leer  with 
which  Spen  asked  the  question. 

"  The  same." 

"  Have  no  fear,  Spen — Edith  shall  be  yours,  if  you  are  in  earnest." 

"  Raise  then  the  fatal  knocker,  at  once.  When  your  embassy  is 
over  you'll  find  me  at  the  Blue  Posts,  a  fortifying  of  myself  for 
Coopid's  answer ;"  and  away  went  Spen  Whiffler  of  old,  cutting  capers 
across  the  road,  to  the  intense  delight  of  two  small  boys,  a  slipshod 
girl,  and  a  draper's  assistant.  The  last  had  been  to  the  big  house, 
hard  by,  with  a  bundle  of  ribbons.  He  had  nothing  else  left  to  do 
but  to  stare  at  Spen.  Vainly  endeavouring  to  support  himself, 
in  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter,  on  a  treacherous  yard-measure,  the 
frail  rod  broke  and  sent  the  grinning  youth  sprawling  upon  his 
paper  box,  before  the  actor  could  be  said  to  have  pulled  a  single  face 
at  him. 

Jacob  was  admitted  to  the  old  schoolroom  by  a  girl  with  patches 
of  dough  clinging  to  a  pair  of  ruddy  arms,  which  she  partly  shielded 
with  a  white  apron. 

She  didna  knaw  whether  Miss  Winthorpe  would  see  him  or  not. 
What  name  wor  it  ?  Martyn  of  Dinsley  ?  Well,  she'd  go  and  tell  her. 
He  moit  sit  down  a  bit 

Jacob  sat  down,  and,  happily,  before  he  had  made  himself  very 
melancholy  with  the  remembrances  of  the  time  when  he  sat  in  that 
same  room  with  his  father,  on  the  occasion  of  the  memorable  visit  to 
Bonsall,  Miss  Edith  Winthorpe  entered.  She  came  forward  and 
bowed  very  politely  to  Jacob,  and  said  quite  naturally  that  she  was 
very  glad  to  see  him. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  apologise  for  calling  without  an  introduction," 
said  Jacob,  a  little  at  a  loss  to  explain  his  business. 

"  I  hope  it  is  not  necessary  for  people  belonging  to  the  same  town 
to  apologise  for  knowing  each  other  in  a  strange  place." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Winthorpe.  I  like  your  frankness ;  but  this  is 
more  than  a  mere  visit  of  courtesy  :  I  have  called  upon  rather  a  deli- 
cate business,"  said  Jacob. 

"  Indeed,"  said  Edith,  losing  her  self-possession  for  a  moment. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !"  said  the  doughy  domestic,  who  had  been  listening  at 
the  key-hole. 

126  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

Edith  has  since  confessed  that  she  expected  a  declaration 
of  love  from  Jacob,  and  that  she  was  quite  prepared  to  receive  it 

"  Then  in  the  first  place,  Miss  Winthorpe,  I  beg  to  tender  to  you 
the  most  abject  apologies  of  a  friend  of  mine  whose  love  rather  outran 
his  discretion  this  morning. " 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Edith  again,  and  this  time  in  a  little  confusion, 
rendered  more  apparent  by  a  sudden  doubt  as  to  fee  motives  of 
Jacob's  visit. 

"  He  is  a  gentieman,  a  man  of  taste  and  feeling,  of  noble  and 
generous  impulses.  I  have  known  him  for  years ;  and  he  has  seen 

Edith  blushed  and  began  to  twist  her  handkerchief  round  her 

"  To  be  plain  with  you,  Miss  Winthorpe,  he  wishes  to  be  intro- 
duced to  you,  and  if  you  can  like  him,  he  is  ready  to  marry  you  ' 
whenever  you  will  name  the  day.     There  \" 

"  There !  Yes,  I  think  you  may  say,  '  There/  A  nice  piece  of 
business  to  come  upon  and  to  propound  before  one  has  spoken  half 
a  dozen  words  to  you,  Mr.  Martyn,"  said  Edith,  rising  and  opening 
the  door,  to  the  consternation  of  the  domestic,  who  was  so  deeply 
interested  in  the  conversation  that  she  stood  gaping  at  Edith,  with 
only  a  vague  idea  that  she  had  been  caught  in  the  act 

"  I  thought  I  heard  you,  Mary,"  said  Edith,  calmly;  "perhaps  you 
will  step  inside  and  take  a  seat  ?" 

Mary  sneaked  away  and  plunged  her  arms  once  more  into  the 
dough,  which  she  beat  and  buffeted  and  rolled  about  in  the  most 
savage  manner ;  sad  illustrations  of  her  wrath  being  exhibited  the 
next  morning  'in  the  flat  hard  cakes  that  were  placed  on  Mrs. 
Gompson's  breakfast-table. 

Edith  was  not  much  disconcerted  at  this  amusing  incident ; 
indeed,  she  laughed  heartily  when  she  had  closed  the  door  upon 
Mary,  and  turning  to  Jacob  said:  "Well,  what  is  this  gentleman 
like  ?  Is  he  handsome  ?  Has  he  money  ?  You  see  I  am  quite  a 
woman  of  the  world  I  have  left  home  to  seek  my  fortune ;  and  I 
must  be  my  own  mamma  and  solicitor  in  this  matter. " 

And  then  she  laughed  again,  at  which  Jacob  was  not  pleased. 

"  But  I  think,  perhaps,  it  would  be  best  for  me  to  send  for  Mrs. 
Gompson  and  take  her  advice/'  she  said,  in  a  graver  mood. 

"  No !  no  !  for  goodness  sake  don't  do  that,"  said  Jacob. 

"But  is  this  proper,  Mr.  Martyn,  to  call  upon  a  young  lady 
when  " 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  127 

"  Mrs.  Gompson  is  my  aunt,"  said  Jacob. 

"  Oh !  now  you  are  joking. " 

"  On  my  honour,"  said  Jacob  "  I  will  answer  to  her  for  your 

Then  Jacob  begged  Edith  to  listen  calmly  to  all  he  would  tell 
her ;  whereupon,  in  a  very  business-like  manner,  he  described  his 
own  position  and  prospects,  spoke  of  his  great  esteem  for  her,  and 
his  knowledge  of  her  history  ;  and  then  entered  fully  into  his  early 
friendship  with  Mr.  Paul  Ferris,  and  related  succinctly  all  he  knew 
about  his  friend. 

When  Jacob  talked  of  Spen's  confession,  Edith's  attention  became 
particularly  earnest ;  her  bright  eyes  sparkled  with  enthusiasm  as  he 
related  the  story  of  Spen's  gradual  success.  She  clasped  her  hands 
with  delight  when  Jacob  described  his  recognition  of  his  old  friend 
on  that  brilliant  night  in  the  London  theatre.  Seeing  how  deeply 
the  story  interested  her,  Jacob  dwelt  longer  upon  this  theme  than  he 
would  otherwise  have  done. 

"  But — but  I  felt  very  much  insulted,  sir,  this  morning,"  said 
Edith,  checking  her  evident  interest  in  Mr.  Ferries  history. 

"  He  bitterly  repents  him  of  his  conduct;  only  pleading  in  extenua- 
tion your  beauty  and  his  love  for  you." 

Finally,  Edith  granted  Jacob  permission  to  introduce  Mr.  Ferris  to- 
herself  and  Mrs.  Gompson  :  not  that  there  was  any  necessity  that  the 
advice  of  the  latter  should  be  obtained  ;  for  Mrs.  Gompson,  besides 
having  no  control  over  Edith  (who  had  only  been  in  Cartown  a  few 
days),  had  neither  the  love  nor  esteem  of  her  teacher ;  and  Mrs. 
Winthorpe  was  a  poor  weak  woman  in  the  hands  of  two  hard-hearted, 
stiff-necked  daughters,  who  would  gladly  have  encompassed  their 
pretty  sister's  ruin,  who  had  indeed  forced  her  from  home,  their  cruelty 
almost  surpassing  that  of  Cinderella's  wicked  persecutors. 

So,  like  many  another  girl,  Edith  was  thrown  upon  her  own  resources. 
She  had  obtained  her  present  situation  through  an  advertisement,  and 
it  was  quite  open  for  her  now  to  use  her  own  judgment  and  feelings 
entirely  in  the  matter  of  the  suit  of  Mr.  Ferris,  whose  delicate  atten- 
tion in  gathering  flowers  for  the  children  had  not  escaped  her  notice. 
His  profession,  which  would  have  been  the  greatest  barrier  to  many 
young  ladies,  was  to  Edith  one  of  his  strongest  recommendations.  A 
girl  of  spirit,  a  good  musician,  possessing  a  fine  voice  and  an  artistic 
taste,  delighting  in  operatic  music,  and  with  a  memory  filled  with  her 
father's  stories  of  theatrical  life  when  he  was  leader  of  a  London 
orchestra,  Edith  would  gladly  have  chosen  the  stage  for  her  own 
profession  had  she  known  how  to  begin ;  but  to  mention  a  theatre  at 

128  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

home  was  to  incur  the  penalty  of  a  lecture  from  two  bad  sisters  and 
a  weak  silly  mother,  and  all  sorts  of  penances  besides.  Moreover, 
there  was  something  in  Mr.  Ferris's  manner  and  appearance  which 
Edith  liked ;  and  Jacob's  plea  in  his  favour  was  so  eloquent,  Jacob's 
announcement  of  his  own  forthcoming  marriage  so  decisive,  and  the 
certainty  of  being  relieved  from  a  life  of  drudgery  so  attractive,  that 
Edith,  weighing  all  things  carefully,  and  putting  into  the  scale  a  little 
liking  for  the  man,  and  much  hope  that  true  love  would  follow,  made 
up  her  mind  to  receive  Mr.  Paul  Ferris  very  graciously. 

Inquiries  at  the  inn  and  elsewhere  led  to  the  information  that  Mr. 
Spawling  had  been  succeeded  as  schoolmaster  by  Mr.  Gompson, 
from  London ;  who,  after  a  little  time,  had  been  joined  by  his  wife, 
when  the  Martyn  establishment  at  Middleton  was  broken  up.  The 
town  had  been  a  good  deal  scandalised  at  the  domestic  brawls  of 
this  uncongenial  couple,  and  had  not  Mr.  Gompson  given  up  the 
ghost,  and  retired  from  the  business  altogether,  the  school  committee 
'would  have  discharged  him.  On  his  decease,  Mrs.  Gompson  (who 
had  shown  great  masculine  power  in  dealing  with  the  boys  during 
her  husband's  illness,  and  whose  mode  of  instruction  seemed  to  be 
more  successful  than  his)  was  appointed  head  of  the  school,  and  she 
had  retained  her  position  ever  since. 

"She's  gotten  a  rum  way  with  th'  lads,  sir,"  said  the  rural  waiter; 
"  when  she's  goin'  to  lick  one  on  'em  she  pitches  th'  cane  from  one 
end  of  the  room  to  the  other,  and  makes  him  fetch  it :  when  he's 
fetched  it  she  leathers  into  him  like  all  that." 

"  And  how  do  the  school  committee  get  along  with  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  she's  master  of  them  too ;  they're  all  afraid  on  her ;  but  she's 
not  a  bad  schoolmissis,  so  fur  as  learning  goes,  I've  heard  say.  She's 
up  to  all  the  new  dodges  of  spelling,  and  writing,  and  'rithmetics,  and 
all  that." 

"All  is  right,"  said  Jacob,  dashing  into  the  dingy  coffee-room; 
"  I  have  wooed  her  for  you  far  more  earnestly  than  Viola,  in  trousers, 
wooed  the  Countess." 

"  But  how  have  you  succeeded?  If  only  after  the  Viola  fashion, 
then  farewell  the  tranquil  mind,"  said  Spen,  half  theatrically,  half 

"  Go  to — I  have  unclasped  to  thee  the  Book  of  Fate — thou  ma/st 
love  her  if  thou  wilt ;  an'  thou  wilt  not,  thou'lt  lose  a  wench  of  rare 
mettle — 

Let  still  the  woman  take 
An  elder  than  herself;   so  wears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart." 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  1 29 

"  Methinks  we  are  a  fair  and  proper  match,  Jacob  ;  I  am  several 
years  her  senior.  We'll  speak  with  the  maid  ourself,  good  Jacob ;" 
and  Spen  strode  right  royally  to  the  fireplace,  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Waiter,  a  bottle  of  the  best — the  wine  I  spoke  of,"  said  Spen,  to. 
the  clown  who  answered  his  ringing;  "and  now,  Jacob,  without 
further  fooling,  let  us  discuss  this  matter.     What  did  she  say  ?     How 
did  she  look  ?" 

Jacob  related  as  nearly  as  possible  all  that  had  taken  place  ;  and 
the  two  agreed  to  wait  upon  the  griffin  and  the  fairy  after  dinner. 

Meanwhile  Jacob  sat  down  to  write  letters,  and  Spen  lit  a  cigar,  in 
the  smoke  of  which  he  tried  to  read  his  destiny.  In  his  own 
eccentric  way  he  loved  Edith ;  she  was  the  first  sunny  thing  he  saw 
on  revisiting  the  haunts  of  his  youth,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
charms  of  the  old  place  were  all  personified  in  her.  It  may  appear 
strange  to  some  pf  my  readers  that  this  comic  gentleman  who  painted 
his  face  and  made  people  laugh,  and  whose  pathos  in  real  life  was 
often  almost  like  burlesque,  should  be  so  love-stricken  at  the  first 
sight  of  a  mere  country  girl.  But  Edith  Winthorpe  was  no  ordinary 
person ;  we  have  seen  how  much  she  interested  Jacob,  and  we  must 
not  forget  that  actors  are  only  mortal  after  all,  with  hearts  and  minds 
as  susceptible  as  those  of  other  people,  and  with  often  a  genuine 
romance  in  their  very  natures,  which  may  lift  some  of  them  to  a 
loftier  and  more  devoted  height  of  love  and  friendship  than  many 
who  follow  professions  outside  the  pale  of  art  could  hope  to  attain. 



Some  months  after  the  events  recorded  in  the  last  few  chapters 
Jacob  Martyn  was  taking  authorship  in  a  very  comfortable  fashion. 
The  library  of  Mr.  Bonsall,  which  had  appeared  to  him  so  magnifi- 
cently cozy,  was  not  more  of  a  book-paradise  than  the  one  in  which 
he  was  engaged  upon  his  "  Romantic  History  of  the  Welsh,"  at 
Neathville,  nor  so  much  indeed ;  for  in  Jacob's  study  there  was  a 
presiding  angel  who  sat  near  him  and  called  him  husband.  What 
were  Jacob's  troubles  and  trials  now  that  his  bark,  as  Mr.  Windgate 
Williams  would  put  it,  had  sailed  gloriously  into  the  harbour  of  Fame, 
Fortune,  and  Matrimony?  I  really  do  not  know  whether  Jacob 
deserved  so  much  honour  and  happiness.  The  critics,  it  was  true, 
said  that  his  "  On  the  Track  of  a  Sunbeam  "  was  one  of  the  most 
charming  works  of  imaginative  genius  since  "The  Tempest"  and 
"  Undine."   His  wife  thought  there  was  nothing  equal  to  it  in  literature. 

1 30  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

The  Dinsley  Courant  went  into  absurdly  extravagant  ecstacies 
about  it,  the  reviewer  closing  three  columns  of  pompous  eulogy  by 
stating  that  "  the  editor  of  this  journal  could  not  conclude  these  few 
remarks,  which  fell  so  far  short  of  the  subject,  without  expressing  in 
some  manner  the  inconceivable  delight  which  he  felt  in  being  able  to 
inform  his  readers  that  Jacob  Martyn,  who  had  stamped  such  an 
indelible  mark  on  the  roll  of  Fame,  had  made  his  first  serious  effort 
at  composition  in  the  columns  of  the  Courant,  which  might  in  reality 
be  regarded  as  the  cradle  in  which  the  mighty  genius  had  been 
rocked ;  and,  to  follow  up  the  simile,  he  (the  editor)  might  humbly 
take  credit  for  being  the  literary  nurse  who  had  rocked  it.M 

Jacob's  visit  to  London,  though  it  had  led  to  the  speedy  marriage 
of  die  lovers,  had  not  been  quite  satisfactory  to  Lucy's  -uncle,  who 
not  only  wished  to  stipulate  that  Jacob  should  change  his  name,  but 
also  that  he  should  undertake  to  contest  any  vacant  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment which  he  (Mr.  Thornton)  might  select  The  old  man  was  very 
grand  about  his  ancestors,  and  the  necessity  for  Jacob  being  some- 
thing more  than  an  author ;  and,  moreover,  with  all  due  deference  to 
Jacob's  abilities,  he  thought  that  if  a  man  was  an  author  at  all  he 
should  have  a  higher  aim  than  that  of  being  a  mere  writer  of  fairy 
tales,  which  were  only  fit  for  women  and  children.  He  had  not 
much  respect  for  scribblers,  he  said,  at  any  time,  and  he  could  only 
tolerate  historians,  and  wits  of  fashion. 

Jacob  would  not  consent  to  either  of  the  suggested  arrangements, 
whereupon  Mr.  Thornton  bade  a  long  farewell  to  the  perpetuation  of 
Thoratonian  greatness,  and  determined  upon  relinquishing  all  the 
schemes  of  ambition  which  the  discovery  of  Lucy  had  for  a  time 
aroused  in  his  mind,  and  finishing  his  existence  in  that  quiet,  jog-trot 
fashion  which  had  been  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  that  never-to-be- 
forgotten  letter  from  his  brother's  son,  the  soldier. 

The  change  which  had  taken  place  in  Mr.  Thornton's  plans,  and  a 
violent  row  between  master  and  man  (arising  out  of  Mr.  Allen's  alleged 
officiousness  in  the  matter  of  the  love-letters,  which  had  done  so  much 
mischief),  blighted  the  hopes  of  the  confidential  servant.  Mr.  Allen's 
long  cherished  idea  of  marrying  Lady  Frumpington's  housekeeper, 
when  his  master  should  have  a  companion  in  an  aristocratic  son-in- 
law,  was  knocked  on  the  head,  as  he  told  that  charming  damseL 
With  a  limp  though  agitated  shirt  frill,  he  bemoaned  his  unhappy  lot; 
and  the  base  creature  whom  he  had  so  long  adored  eloped  the  next 
day  with  the  French  cook  of  a  bishop,  which  circumstance  so  affected 
Mr.  Allen  that  he  went  into  a  violent  fit  of  coughing  and  perspira- 
tion, and  was,  he  believed  ever  afterwards,  a  miserable  valet. 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  131 

On  the  completion  of  the  Welsh  book,  and  the  receipt  of  a  cheque 
for  nearly  double  the  amount  expected  for  the  work,  Lucy  and  Jacob 
paid  a  visit  to  Mr.  Paul  Ferris.  Edith  and  Spen  were  a  very  happy 
couple,  and  had  received  such  warm  invitations  to  visit  the  Grove, 
that  they  had  arranged  for  a  triumphant  tour,  "  some  Passion-week, " 
to  Dinsley ;  where  Edith  fully  intended  to  show  Paul  off  before  her 
envious  friends,  and  duly  patronise  her  fawning  sisters,  who  wrote  to 
her  in  terms  of  the  most  glowing  affection  immediately  after  reading 
in  the  Courant  that  "  the  eminent  and  distinguished  comedian,  Paul 
Ferris,  Esq.,  had  just  led  to  the  hymeneal  altar  Miss  Edith  Win- 
thorpe,  the  lovely  and  accomplished  daughter  of  Mrs.  Winthorpe, 
of  the  Grove,  in  this  town."  They  had  treated  her  cards  with  con- 
tempt, but  unable  to  resist  this  paragraph,  and  the  visions  of  a  house 
in  London,  and  long  sisterly  visits  thither,  had  poured  out  the  latent 
tenderness  of  their  virgin  hearts  upon  Mrs.  Ferris,  in  gushing  floods 
of  ink,  on  shining  leaves  of  scented  note-paper,  sealed  with  the 
motto,  "Though  absent,  ever  dear." 

Do   you  remember  that  sweet   face   in  the    old  room  at  the 
Cartown  school  ?    The  deep  blue  eyes  and  the  raven  hair  of  her  who 
was  painted  as  Rosalind  ?    Jacob  has  not  forgotten  it ;  neither  has 
Spen.     In  his  early  life  Mr.  Dudley  was  intended  for  the  bar ;  but 
he  had  seen  this  young  sparkling  beauty  and  loved  her.    She  became 
everything  to   him :    his   world,   his  existence.      He  gave  up  his 
profession,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  stage.     He  studied  under 
a  great  master,  and  soon  gave  evidence  of  dramatic  genius.     He 
appeared  at  Old  Drury,  playing  Romeo  to  his  idol's  Juliet.     He  felt 
in  truth  all  the  poetry  set  down  in  the  text ;  and  afterwards,  at  her 
own  home,  he  told  the  lady  of  his  love.  As  time  went  on  they  became 
the  rage.     Dudley's  Romeo,  and  Amy  Clifton's  Juliet ;  his  Orlando 
and  her  Rosalind  ;  his  Prospero  and  her  Miranda,   were  marvels  of 
fine  acting.     Then  it  became  known  that  they  were  to  be  married, 
and  little  allusions  to  matrimony  which  cropped  up  in  the  text  were 
caught  at  and  applauded  to  the  echo.     The  theatrical  world  fairly 
.  loved  them  both  ;  and  the  beautiful  Amy  Clifton  became  more  and 
more  lovely.     But  she  was  not  worthy  of  the  large-hearted  actor. 
Hefs  was  but  a  painted  passion.     One  unhappy  night,  when  the 
notorious  Lord  Menzwith  was  in  the  fulness  of  his  glory,  she  fell  away 
from  her  allegiance  and  deserted  her  lover.   The  dazzling  professions 
of  the  brilliant  nobleman  overcame  her  and  she  fled  with  him. 

With  her  mysterious  disappearance  from  the  stage  the  public  heard 
of  the  dangerous  illness  of  Mr.  Liston  Dudley.  He  was  in  a  fever 
for  weeks ;  when  he  recovered  he  was  a  broken-down  man. 

132  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

There  is  no  human  being  that  is  all  bad.  There  are  corners  in 
the  blackest  hearts  where  some  little  goodness  still  remains  to  prove 
the  divinity  of  their  Maker.  Amy  Clifton  was  not  all  bad  ;  her  lord 
lover  soon  showed  himself  to  her  in  his  true  colours ;  she  heard  of 
the  break-up  of  poor  Liston  Dudley;  and  one  dreary  night  in  winter, 
an  outcast  and  a  wanderer,  she  found  out  his  quiet  retreat,  and, 
imploring  forgiveness,  died  in  his  arms,  of  want,  neglect,  and 

His  love  for  this  woman  was  poor  old  Dudley's  big  sorrow ;  and 
once  a  year,  as  I  ha\p  said,  he  gave  himself  up  to  it  wholly ;  but  his 
memory  was  always  with  the  bright,  sunny,  dazzling  girl  who  had 
played  Juliet  to  his  Romeo  in  the  days  of  his  youth. 

Silly  old  man  !  some  of  my  readers  may  say.  Perhaps  he  was, 
perhaps  not.  It  is  not  for  us  to  judge  him.  There  is  no  knowing 
what  you  and  I  may  come  to,  my  friend.  Fate  has  all  to  do  with  it, 
Dr.  Horatio  Johnson  says  ;  and  you  may  rely  upon  it  he  is  not  far 
wrong.  I  have  just  returned  from  a  long  journey.  At  starting,  a 
young  woman  took  a  seat  in  a  wrong  train.  The  guard  speedily  put 
her  right.  If  we  could  all  of  us  only  be  put  right  when  we  begin  our 
long  journeyon  life's  railway  !  If  Fate,  who  may  be  taken  as  the 
guard,  wouldjonly  tell  us  when  we  stepped  into  the  wrong  train. 
That  young  woman  I  spoke  of  would  have  gone  to  London 
instead  of  Birmingham,  if  the  Great  Western  guard  had  not 
interfered.  If  Fate  had  only  told  Liston  Dudley  that  he 
was  in  the  wrong  train  when  he  took  his  seat  for  the  theatre  on 
that  night  of  Amy'Clifton's  benefit !  But  you  see,  Fate  did  nothing 
of  the  sort,  Mr.  Williams  would  say ;  therefore  it  was  his  fate  to  go 
wrong.  And]the'guard  knew  it  when  he  opened  the  first-class  door 
to  Lord  Menzwith. 

We  leave  Mr.  Liston  Dudley,  however,  soothed  and  consoled  in 
the  companyjof  those  who  love  him,  and  in  whose  happiness  his 
unselfish  and  noble  nature  finds  its  sweetest  delight  in  these  latter 

A  pilgrimage  which  the  happy  bride  and  bridegroom  made  to 
Cartown  and  the  house  among  the  trees,  a  few  months  later,  revealed 
a  pathetic  episode  in  the  married  life  of  Will  Tunster  and  our  old 
friend  Dorothy. 

It  was  evening  when  Jacob  and  Lucy,  after  a  series  of  short 
journeys,  reached  Cartown ;  but  the  sun  was  only  just  beginning  to 
show  golden  signs  of  his  departure  to  other  lands ;  so  they  deter- 
mined to  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tunster  that  night    Full  of  the  past, 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  133 

they  determined  to  walk  the  old  walk  together,  and  to  order  a 
conveyance  to  be  in  waiting  for  them,  on  their  return,  in  the  lane 
near  the  site  of  the  old  gipsy  encampment.  Lucy  hung  fondly  upon 
Jacob's  arm,  and  when  they  reached  the  bridge  over  the  Cartown 
river  he*  paused  to  tell  her  how  he  had  once  stood  there  years  before, 
when  winter  had  stilled  the  river  and  covered  it  with  ice ;  and  then, 
while  the  birds  sang  their  evening  songs  around  them,  and  bees 
and  beetles  buzzed  a  drowsy  chorus,  he  told  her  of  his  journey  in 
the  snow  and  the  footprints  which  were  not  hers.  Tears  of  sorrow 
and  joy  stole  gently  down  Lucy's  cheeks  at  the  recital ;  she  looked 
through  them,  up  into  her  husband's  face,  and  asked  him  if  the  ice 
was  really  thawed  at  last,  and  the  sunshine  come.  Jacob's  reply  was 
not  in  words ;  he  drew  Lucy  closer  to  his  side  and  they  wandered 
down  the- deep  green  lane,  eloquent  in  their  loving  silence. 

Highway,  lane,  and  fields  were  soon  left  behind;  and  so  also 
was  the  well-known  stile  that  led  to  the  wood,  which  seemed  to 
stretch  out  its  umbrageous  arms  affectionately  over  the  children  who 
had. returned  to  its  bosom.  The  rill,  which  had  so  often  sung  songs 
of  joy  and  hope  to  the  lovers  in  the  long-past  days,  whispered  and 
murmured  over  the  old  mosses  and  pebbles ;  glided  by  the  same 
knotted  roots ;  chattered  over  the  same  stones  ;  and  lost  itself  in  the 
same  leafy  valley.  What  happiness  to  feel  that  there  was  no  rebuke 
in  the  constancy  of  that  familiar  rivulet ! 

They  found  Will  Tunster  hale  and  hearty,  sitting  on  a  bench  in 
the  garden,  amusing  himself  with  his  time-honoured  bugle,  breathing 
through  its  old  crooks  the  air  which  had  once  been  so  familiar  to 
Lucy  and  Jacob  in  the  days  of  the  Middleton  mail.  Dorothy,  in  a 
white  cap  and  apron,  with  a  shawl  pinned  over  her  shoulders,  sat 
sewing  close  by.  An  old  shepherd's  dog  (the  sight  of  which  gave 
Jacob  a  pang  of  memory  concerning  Caesar,  who  died  on  board  ship 
soon  after  Mrs.  Titsy's  marriage)  lay  asleep  at  the  threshold  of  the 
house;  a  great  white  cat  sat  lazily  watching  a  blackbird,  that  was 
pouring  forth  a  series  of  full  round  notes  in  an  adjacent  copse ;  and 
a  kitten  was  playing  with  a  reel  of  cotton  which  had  fallen  from  Mrs. 
Tunster^  knee. 

The  meeting  was  a  sad  yet  a  happy  one.  After  the  first  surprise 
and  the  greeting  on  both  sides  were  over,  and  Will  had  gone  out  to 
procure  fresh  cream  for  tea,  Lucy  rallied  Mrs.  Tunster  about  her  old 
love-making  and  endeavoured  to  elicit  from  her  some  particulars  of 
her  marriage. 

"  Ah,  my  love,"  said  Dorothy,  sadly,  "  it's  a  long  tale  and  getting 

rather  foggy  at  my  time  of  life." 

Vol.  X.  N.S.,  1873.  L 

1 34  The  Gcnilematis  Magazine. 


"  Your  time  of  life,  my  dear  Dorothy!"  said  Lucy,  as  two  fine  rosy, 
curly-headed  fellows,  bearing  unmistakable  evidence  of  their  paternity, 
romped  in,  and  then  shrank  back,  abashed  at  their  own  impudence, 
to  run  off  laughing  down  the  garden. 

"Ah,"  said  Dorothy,  not  heeding  the  children,  "  I  mayn't  be  so 
very  old,  but  I  seem  to  be.  Well,  I  thank  God  I've  helped  to  make 
somebody  happy.  To  think  of  you  two  coming,  man  and  wife, 
gentleman  and  lady,  to  see  me  again  before  I  am  laid,  with  my  poor 
old  mother,  in  the  churchyard  yonder !" 

"  Don't  talk  in  that  way,"  said  Lucy,  rising  and  tenderly  embracing 
her  foster-sister. 

"Well,  I  ought  not,  perhaps,"  said  Dorothy;  "but  we  get  soberer 
as  we  get  older.  We  may  say  the  same  things  as  we've  said  when 
we  were  young,  but  we  say  them  solemner  like.  There's  Will,  he 
plays  the  same  tunes  he  used  to  play  when  I  was  a  little  wench,  but 
there's  not  so  much  life  in  them  now — their  sound  is  more  feel- 
ing, as  if  they  had  had  troubles  like  us,  and  had  got  quieter  and 
solemner  than  they  used  to  be.  Poor  Will !  he  has  been  a  good 
husband  to  me  and  a  good  father  to  his  children." 

It  required  a  second  and  a  third  visit  to  the  Tunsters  ere  Lucy 
and  Jacob  learnt  all  about  the  shadow  which  had  fallen  upon  the 
dear  old  home  among  the  trees.  My  readers  are  already  acquainted 
with  Dorothy's  "  attachment,"  prior  to  her  marriage  with  Will.  The 
sailor  boy  referred  to  in  several  of  my  previous  chapters  was  origi- 
nally an  apprentice  at  Cartown,  and  engaged  to  Dorothy  while  both 
were  in  their  teens.  A  bad  master  and  indifferent  parents  had  led 
to  his  running  away ;  but  Dorothy  was  made  fully  aware  of  his  plans, 
and  was  afterwards  thrown  into  a  flutter  of  delight,  at  uncertain  inter- 
vals, by  his  characteristic  and  encouraging  letters.  The  last  she  had 
received  told  her  of  his  being  made  chief  mate  of  his  ship,  and  spoke 
of  his  return,  when  he  intended  to  put  into  the  port  of  matrimony  for 
the  remainder  of  his  days.  But  month  after  month,  year  after  year, 
passed  away,  and  Dorothy  received  no  more  tidings  of  her  lover ; 
and  at  length  even  she  was  compelled  to  believe,  with  everybody 
else,  that  he  was  dead.  My  readers  know  what  eventually  followed ; 
but  they  do  not  know  that  hardly  had  Dorothy  and  Will  been 
married  two  years,  when  the  runaway  apprentice  returned  from  his 
long  exile,  years  of  which  he  had  spent  in  a  foreign  prison.  It  was 
a  great  trial  for  Dorothy,  but  she  bore  it.  The  returned  sailor,  in 
despair,  would  have  carried  her  off,  but  Dorothy  calmly  resisted  ail 
his  temptations.  Will  Tunater,  honest,  warm-hearted  Will,  would 
.have  given  her  up  and  cancelled  her  marriage. 

Stranger  than  Fiction.  135 

The  woman  having  become  the  wife,  was  not,  however,  to  be 
shaken  in  her  honour  and  integrity. 

"  I  loved  thee  once,  Tom  Huntly,"  she  said,  "  and  thou  knows  it ; 
but  now  and  for  ever  thou  art  as  dead  to  me  as%  I  thought  thee  when 
I  stood  in  our  old  parish  church,  and  bound  myself,  for  weal  or  for 
woe,  to  Will  Tunster,  the  mail-driver  of  Crossley." 

Nevertheless  there  was  long  afterwards  a  shadow  on  the  spirit  of 
Dorothy,  but  she  never  let  it  fall  upon  Will  Tunster,  though  she  could 
not  help  showing  it  to  Jacob  and  Lucy.  She  was  a  true  wife  to  Will, 
combatting  and  conquering  what  she  regarded  as  the  unlawful  bent 
of  her  affection  towards  her  early  love.  Patiently,  and  with  enduring 
fortitude,  did  the  good  soul  strive  to  forget  the  past,  and  to  love, 
honour,  and  obey  the  man  who  had  sworn  to  cherish  and  protect  her. 
In  the  .end,  as  the  duties  of  the  mother  succeeded  to  those  of  the 
wife,  a  higher  and  holier  feeling  took  the  place  of  respect  and  esteem ; 
and  Will  Tunster  was  beloved  of  Dorothy  his  wife. 

"There  are  homesteads  which  have  witnessed  deeds 
That  battle  fields,  with  all  their  bannerM  pomp, 
Have  little  to  compare  with.    Life's  great  play, 
May,  so  it  have  an  actor  great  enough, 
Be  well  performed  upon  a  humble  stage/' 

(To  be  concluded  next  month.) 


The  Oberland  in  January. 

>HE  number  of  English  who  annually  visit  Switzerland  in 
the  summer  has  been  estimated  at  an  average  of  thirty- 
five  thousand  persons.  Save  those  who  go  on  business, 
the  number  of  visitors  in  winter  time  perhaps  hardly 
exceeds  a  hundred,  and  these  do  not  penetrate  to  the  depths  of  the 
country.  The  experience,  then,  of  a  correspondent  who  visited  the 
Jungfrau  chain  last  January  in  search  of  fresh  air  may  be  not  only 
novel  but  suggestive,  and  alluring  to  others.  The  impressions  have 
at  least  the  merit  of  being  fresh,  as  they  were  recorded  on  the  spot. 
We  understand  that  all  the  beauties  described  have  been  in  high 
perfection  this  season,  and  that  they  do  not  begin  to  lose  their  charm 
before  the  first  or  second  week  in  March.  So  there  is  yet  time  for 
those  who  have  opportunity  and  inclination  to  see  for  themselves  the 
marvels  of  nature  described  by  the  writer  of  the  following  letters. 

HUel  de  V  Ours,  Grindelwald,  January  17,  1872. 

"  A  mad  world,  my  masters ! "  cried  an  experienced  journalist, 
when  1  told  him  I  was  going  to  spend  a  brief  holiday  in  the  Bernese 
Oberland  this  month.  "Why,  apart  from  your  being  frozen  to 
death  in  the  first  six  hours,  or  being  buried  in  snowdrift,  which  comes 
to  the  same  thing,  you  will  find  when  you  get  to  Bale  that  there's  no 
such  thing  as  an  Oberland  now.  Albert  Smith  invented  Switzerland, 
and  ever  since  the  Federal  authorities  at  Berne  have  contracted  to 
have  the  mountains  put  up  in  the  spring,  and  taken  down  in  the 
autumn  for  repairs.  Have  you  insured  your  life  ?  for  you'll  be  killed 
to  a  certainty.  Good-bye.  But,  by  Jove,  it's  a  good  idea,  and — and 
I  wish  I  were  going  with  you."  In  Brussels,  friends  were  about 
to  lay  violent  hands  on  me.  It  was  only  in  Berne  that  I 
received  any  encouragement.  Ifwas  the  hardest  winter  that  had 
been  known  for  many  years  in  Switzerland — this,  said  deprecatingly, 
was  not  exhilarating — and  the  view  from  Interlaken  would  be 
magnificent.  I  might,  by  chance,  get  an  enterprising  owner  of 
horses  eating  their  heads  off  at  Unterseen  to  take  me  as  far  as 
the  fork  at  Zweilutschinen.  It  had  been  understood  that  a  wild 
curate  from  somewhere  westward  of  London  had  just  returned 
after  a  fortnight  about  the  lakes   of  the  Oberland,  but  he  had 

The  Oberland  in  January.  137 

been  able  to  do  nothing,  except  look  at  the  mountains  from  a 
respectful  distance  when  the  clouds  would  let  him.  It  was  now 
doubtful  whether  the  steamers  would  any  longer  be  running  on 
the  lakes,  as  Brienzer  was  reported  frozen,  and  Thun  not  very  far 
from  it.  Still  it  was  worth  trying ;  so  much  was  admitted ;  and 
so  much  being  admitted,  here  I  am,  without  any  great  difficulty 
either,  about  as  much  in  the  middle  of  the  Bernese  Alps  as  I 
ever  have  been  or  shall  be.  The  Faulhorn  and  the  Hasli 
Schiedeck  are  behind  me ;  on  the  left  is  the  Wetterhorn  and  the 
Schreckhorn ;  in  front  the  Finster-aarhorn,  the  Eiger,  the  Monch,  the 
Jungfrau,  and  the  Wengern  Alp;  and  on  the  right  is  the  Mannlichen. 
Two  glaciers  are  within  a  mile  of  me,  and  the  last  human  habitations 
at  this  time  of  year  I  have  passed  this  evening  in  a  walk.  If  this  be 
not  the.  heart  of  the  Oberland,  then  I  should  like  to  know  where  it  is. 
Yet,  I  repeat,  getting  here  was  a  matter  of  course.  Any  one  who  can 
stand  a  moderate'  amount  of  cold  may  do  in  thirty-six  hours  from 
Berne  and  back  more,  much  more,  than  I  have  done  without  fatigue. 

Speaking,  then,  from  this  coign  of  vantage,  I  beg  to  assert  in  the 
most  emphatic  manner  that  he  who  has  only  seen  the  Bernese  Ober- 
land in  summer  or  autumn,  has  not  seen  the  Bernese  Oberland  at  its 
best.  I  do  not  write  for  Alpine  climbers,  who  are  a  race  apart,  and 
to  whom  the  mountains  just  now  would  offer  no  attractions,  seeing 
that  no  guides  could  be  tempted  to  risk  their  necks  in  scaling  peaks,  or 
crossing  passes  yards  deep  in  snow ;  but  for  that  very  large  section 
of  the  British  public  which  loves  fondly  and  thinks  it  knows  Swit- 
zerland, there  is  not  a  feature,  save  foliage,  that  is  not  now  tenfold 
more  attractive  than  at  any  other  time,  and  the  bitter  weather  adds 
thousands  of  its  own.  Add  to  all  that  one  has  the  country  to  one's 
self,  that  the  beggars  and  touts,  who  in  summer  render  the  place 
unbearable,  have  vanished  absolutely,  that  ten  francs  now  go  as  far 
as  fifteen  or  sixteen  in  the  tourist  season,  and  then  let  those  who  can 
spare  a  fortnight,  and  who  can  stand  a  cold  of  ten  or  twelve  degrees 
of  frost,  say  whether  they  will  not  make  an  effort,  at  the  cost  of  ten 
pounds  or  so,  to  reach  this  place  and  Lauterbrunnen  at  least 

Let  us,  if  you  please,  take  the  journey  as  far  as  Berne  for  granted. 
Leaving  the  Federal  capital  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  it  was 
of  course  quite  dark,  and  for  more  than  half  the  distance  to  Thun  at 
the  exit  of  the  River  Aar  from  Thunen  See,  what  with  the  laggard 
habits  of  the  sun,  and  the  lowering  clouds,  and  the  driving  snow,  the 
only  thing  a  sensible  person,  who  had  the  whole  of  the  first  and 
second  class  carriages  to  himself,  could  do,  was  to  curl  up  by  the 
stove  and  go  to  sleep.     Wakened  by  a  demand  for  a  ticket,  the 

138  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

traveller  found  himself  apparently  still  in  dreamland.  It  was  broad 
daylight,  the  snow  had  just  ceased,  the  whole  face  of  the  country, 
dulled  on  the  previous  day  by  partial  thaw,  was  white — well,  what  can 
I  say  better  than  white  as  snow  ? — the  telegraph  wires  looked  like 
thick  ropes  of  frosted  glass,  and  on  every  tree  the  crystals,  that  froze 
hard  as  they  had  fallen,  assumed  ten  thousand  fantastic  forms,  and 
seemed  even  more  beautiful  than  everybody  knows  snow  crystals  are. 
It  was  rather  trying,  I  will  grant,  to  step  from  the  warm  compartment 
to  the  cold  and  wet  deck  of  the  early  steamboat ;  but  if  it  had  not 
been  that  sleet  set  in  as  though  sent  by  the  monarch  of  the  peaks  to 
scare  off  the  rash  intruder,  it  would  have  been  worth  braving  mere 
cold  to  see  how  the  veil  of  mist  lifted  from  the  mountains,  and  how 
what  had  promised  to  be  a  day  of  misery — of  rain  that  no  macintosh 
would  turn,  and  cold  that  no  fur  coat  would  keep  out — became  all  of 
a  sudden  promising,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour  literally  brilliant 
It  is  commonly  so  among  these  mountains  at  this  time  of  year.  For 
one  bad  day  they  have  twenty  good  ones,  and  fifteen  bad  nights. 
The  night  before  I  came  up  was,  I  heard,  awful.  The  thermometer 
was  down  to  zero,  some  say  below  it.  Snow  fell  thickly  from  time 
to  time,  but  not  for  long  at  a  time,  and  Boreas  blew  a  blast  on  the 
"  horns"  hereabout  that  made  children  creep  in  close  to  their  mothers, 
and  woke  the  echoes  to  more  sublime  effect  than  that  dreadful  instru- 
ment with  which  they  torture  you  in  the  Oberland  in  summer  and 
autumn.  Yesterday  and  to-day,  on  the  contrary,  have  been  perfectly 
peaceful.  Last  night  and  to-night  the  sunsets  were  things  to  travel  a 
thousand  miles  to  see,  and  the  moon  to-night  is  shedding  a  glory  of 
light  on  the  everlasting  green  ice  up  above  yonder,  and  the  driven 
snow  of  the  hill  sides  and  the  meadows. 

Among  the  first  curious  things  that  a  passenger  by  the  early 
steamer  from  Thun  or  Scherziigen  would  have  noted  were  the  now 
half  tame  crows  of  the  mountains,  who  came  about  the  deck  like 
robins  on  an  English  window-sill,  in  search  of  the  bread  which  die 
kindly  souls  of  "  the  Swiss  naval  service"  are  ever  careful  to  leave  for 
them.  Three  such  black  crows  were  good  enough  to  act  as  tutelary 
spirits  yesterday  morning,  and  they  will  continue  to  do  so  until  the 
snow  melts  and  discloses  the  fine  fat  worms  of  the  fallows  within 
reach.  The  next  curious  thing  was  that  about  three-fourths  of  the 
houses  at  or  near  Interlaken  seemed  to  be  utterly  deserted.  Hotels 
and  bazaars,  hair  cutting  establishments,  and  the  makers  of  mock 
alpenstocks,  all  alike  had  more  than  adopted  the  early  closing 
movement,  for  they  did  not  open  at  all.  As  I  had  unhappily  forgotten 
my  writing  case  at  Bile,  it  cost  me  a  good  hour  to  find  enough 

Tlie  Oberland  in  yanuary.  139 


paper  whereon  to  write  up  here.  Interlaken,  like  the  few  bears 
left  over  in  the  Grisons,  is  hibernating ;  it  lives  only  by  visitors,  but 
the  tourist  who  accepts  my  invitation  hither  at  this  time  will  find  one 
very  good  hotel  in  full  swing  next  door  to  the  post-office. 

I  did  not  hurry  away  from  Interlaken,  deserted  as  the  place  is. 
There  is  a  charm  in  the  contrast  between  such  a  turmoil  of  pleasure 
as  in  summer  reigns  here  and  such  desolation  as  now  exists.  But, 
after  all,  one  does  not  care  to  dwell  long  on  the  melancholy  side  of 
the  case  when  Nature,  in  her  most  glorious  attire,  is  smiling  a  welcome 
— when  the  Schynige  Platte,  a  usual  sight  for  gaping  tourists,  from 
his  "  hackneyed  height"  calmly  looks  down,  clad  in  a  pure  white 
robe,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  am  safe  from  intrusive  feet  for  one  day;" 
when  "throned  Eternity,  in  icy  halls  of  cold  sublimity,"  at  once 
attracts  and  repels.  This  is  no  time  for  lingering  in  tame  Interlaken, 
though,  indeed,  one  might  dream  hours  away  in  ecstasy  at  the 
splendour  of  the  sun  on  the  southern  side  of  the  Stuffelberg  and 
Steinberg — commonly  bare  walls  of  rugged  rock,  now  a  mass  of 
myriad  diamonds  in  snow.  This  is  no  time  for  a  carriage; 
nor  for  horse  exercise,  seeing  that  the  roads  are  like,  nay  are, 
ice.  There  is  nothing  for  it  but  a  sledge  on  the  level  and  a  walk 
up-hill.  Jingle  go  the  bells,  the  snow  balls  in  the  hoofs  of  the  good 
horse,  the  runners  glide  merrily  over  the  frozen  track  :  it  is  at  the  rate 
of  ten  miles  an  hour  in  a  moment,  and  for  a  moment  only,  for  here 
begins  the  ascent — a  mile  from  Interlaken.  Past  the  end  of  Ausser- 
beig  we  go — now  fast,  now  slow — and  reach  the  stream  called  the 
Lutschen,  which  we  shall  follow  to  two  of  its  sources.  Nothing  to  note 
so  far,  beyond  what  we  know  of  old.  Here  we  are  at  the  Rothenfluh 
— I  wonder  how  many  red  cliffs  and  red  peaks  there  are  in  Switzerland ! 
— and  barely  glance  at  its  familiar  scarp,  flecked  here  and  there  with 
some  snow  lodged  on  a  shelf,  when — nay,  it  is  clear  that  our  eyes 
deceived  us,  that  imagination  played  us  false  when  we  thought  we 
saw  a  very  Niagara  of  ice.  It  is  a  long  climb  past  this  bit  of  forest 
which  cut  the  vision  from  our  view,  but  then  we  shall  clearly  see 
that  it  was  only  the  product  of  some  wild  idea  in  a  mind  diseased 
by  the  contemplation  of  transformation  scenes  in  pantomimes.  By 
all  that  is  beautiful,  it  is  no  vision,  but  a  solid  fact,  so  lovely  as  to 
give  the  go-by  to  all  mental  creations.  Why  have  we  not  an  accom- 
plished artist,  or  at  least  some  poor  mechanical  person,  with  a  pre- 
pared plate  and  a  camera,  here,  that  this  miracle  of  Nature  may  be 
carried  home  to  make  the  men  and  women  within  the  four  seas 
marvel?  Words  must  fail,  yet  words  must  try,  to  convey  a  slight 
notion  of  this  grand  result  of  winter's  handiwork.     Hundreds  who 

140  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

read  these  lines  have  probably  passed  this  Rothenfluh  without  know- 
ing that  in  wet  seasons  a  small  rivulet  trickles  over  from  a  slight 
hollow  in  the  sky  line  of  the  cliff.  It  is  too  insignificant  for  the 
notice  of  any  of  the  guide  books ;  but  it  and  winter  have  joined 
hands  here  to  form  the  most  wondrous  beauty  that  ever  the  eye  saw. 
For  a  space  of  four  or  five  hundred  feet  in  length  by  the  height  of 
the  cliff,  which  cannot  here  be  far  short  of  seven  hundred  feet,  the 
little  stream  has  cast  itself  into  a  solid  mass.  The  water,  drifted  by 
the  wind  now  to  this  narrow  ledge  of  the  precipitous  cliff,  now  to 
that,  has  dripped  over  and  made  icicles,  and  then  more  icicles,  and 
then  icicles  once  again,  until  it  is  not  icicles  that  you  see  but  a  large 
body  of  water  turned  solid  as  by  a  magician's  wand.  And  then  the 
ice  is  the  colour  of  the  sea  when  white  sand  forms  the  bottom,  and 
on  to  this  solid  ice  the  wind  has  driven  sheets  of  spray,  that  have 
formed  fine  lace-work  over  the  masses  of  ice  and  froze  as  they  formed. 
Thousands  of  tons  of  sea-green  topaz,  carven  by  the  fairies  and  draped 
with  Valenciennes — etherealise  that,  and  you  may  have  a  distant  idea 
of  the  glory  yesterday  and  to-day  of  the  north-east  face  of  the 
Rothenfluh.  To  come  from  England  or  Scotland,  see  this,  and  go 
back  without  looking  an  inch  farther,  the  journey  would  yet  not  be 
lost.  It  is  the  very  boudoir  of  the  Alps — a  tiring  room  for  the 
Goddess  of  Cold. 

All  along  the  cliffs  are  littie  cascades  of  ice,  but  none  even 
approaching  in  magnificence  to  this.  Yet  they  who  wait  till  May  to 
begin  thinking  of  coming  hither  will  miss  all  the  beauty  of  what  I 
have,  I  feel  how  vainly,  attempted  to  describe.  To  the  left,  the 
white  Wetterhorn,  now  in  icy  mail  from  head  to  heel,  forms  a  back- 
ground to  the  valley  of  the  Black  Lutschen,  of  which  more  anon. 
We  bear  to  the  right,  by  the  banks  of  the  White  Lutschen,  towards 
Lauterbrunnen.  Once  more  we  are  in  luck.  Hardly  a  cloud  in  the 
sky  and  not  a  particle  of  mist  round  the  crown  of  the  Wengern  Alp 
to  the  left  front,  or  of  the  Schwarz  Monch — Brown  Monk,  to  dis- 
tinguish him  from  the  Monk — before  us.  We  leave  the  sledge  at  the 
very  convenient  little  hotel  which  is  so  charmingly  situated,  and  walk 
up  to  the  Staubbach.  Positively  in  the  whole  of  that  six  or  seven 
hundred  yards  not  one  of  the  swarms  of  children  who  are  amusing 
themselves  with  their  toy  sledges  in  the  frozen  lanes  ask  for  money, 
or  do  anything  but  stare  at  the  stranger.  In  six  months'  time  they 
will  be  dogging  the  heels  of  every  tourist,  as  they  were  six  months 
ago.  But  they  are  not  under  orders  from  home  at  present,  and 
prefer  playing  to  begging.  The  women  who  keep  carvings  and 
photographs  do  not  pester,  although  they  rush  eagerly  out  to  open 

The  Oberland  in  J 'annary.  141 

their  wares ;  but  they  civilly  take  a  u  No,"  and  give  us  "  Good  day  " 
as  we  pass  back.  The  man  with  the  Alpine  horn  surprises  half-a- 
franc  out  of  a  pocket  usually  buttoned  to  such  appeals  by  really 
asking  beforehand  whether  he  may  start  the  echoes.  Such  a  change 
was  never  heard  of.  Here  are  these  mendicants  and  touters,  reckoned 
among  the  very  worst  in  Europe,  positively  returned  for  eight  months 
in  the  year  to  the  aboriginal  simplicity  in  which  they  existed  before 
steam  and  the  immortal  lecture  on  "  Mont  Blanc  "  made  them  and 
their  valleys  famous.  Tourists  who  have  smarted  will  doubtless  aver 
that  the  picture  is  too  much  couleur  dc  rose.  I  can  only  say,  Come  and 
see — before  May. 

There  is  a  very  tiny  driblet  of  water  coming  over  on  the  Staubbach, 
but  what  there  is  well  justifies  the  name  of  the  Dustbrook,  for  none 
of  it  in  a  solid  form  reaches  the  bottom  of  the  cliff.  Yet  it  has 
accumulated  in  terrace  after  terrace  of  green  and  white  icicles  that 
would  be  marvellous  if  one  had  not  half  an  hour  before  seen  the 
Rothenfluh.  And  every  now  and  then,  as  the  vanished  spray  again 
takes  the  form  of  water,  and  penetrates  under  the  banks  of  icicles, 
it  forces  them  up  with  a  roar  like  thunder,  and  escapes  under  them 
down  the  rest  of  the  cliff.  Questionless,  the  Staubbach  is  much  more 
beautiful  now'than  in  summer  time,  but  it  is  still  much  inferior  to  the 
Rothenfluh,  which  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  out  of  every 
thousand  visitors  to  the  Valley  of  Endless  Springs  never  see  in  any 

We  regain  our  hotel  without  an  interruption  from  the  erst  touters 
and  mendicants  save  a  kindly  "  Good  day;"  and  in  sheer  dismay  lest 
this  part  of  the  report  should  be  deemed  too  incredible,  I  propose  to 
adjourn  the  details  of  the  rest  of  my  trip  till  to-morrow — the  more 
that  twelve  hours  of  mountaineering  in  January  on  the  Oberland  is 
not  conducive  to  fluent  composition  when  dinner  is  over. 

Interlaken,  January  iSt/i. 

I  had  intended  to  go  to  Grindelwald  from  Lauterbrunnen,  by  the 
usual  summer  path  behind  the  Wengern  Alp;  but  when  I  learnt 
that  part  of  the  way  was  impassable  even  for  sledges,  as  I  had 
guessed,  and  that  it  would  be  too  dangerous  for  horses,  which  I  had 
not  contemplated,  I,  feeling  lazy,  went  again  down  the  Hunnenfluh 
road,  and  halted  at  Zweilutschinen  while  I  attempted  the  compara- 
tively easy  climb  of  the  Eisenfluh.  Thus  I  was  disappointed  in  one 
of  my  main  objects.  I  had  desired  to  approach  the  Jungfrau  as 
closely  as  was  compatible  with  not  too  much  personal  exertion,  and 
to  see  the  "Virgin"  in  all  her  splendour  at  this  season  of  her  greatest 

142  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

glory.    But,  apart  from  the  laziness  which  I.  confess  without  a  morsel 
of  shamefacedness,  nature  does  not  arrange  things  nicely  this  time  of 
year  for  a  fourteen  or  fifteen  hours'  mountain  trip.     The  next  best 
thing,  clearly,  was  to  try  the  path  to  Eisenfluh.     Close  by  the  well- 
known  narrow  road  over  the  cliff  some  will  remember,  ten  to  fifteen 
minutes  from  the  Bear  Hotel,  a  little  bit  of  rugged  rock  on  the  right 
under  a  group  of  firs  and  bushes.     Here  is  an  ice  cascade  which  far 
excels  that  of  the  Rothenfluh  in  all  but  size.     It  is  not  more  than  ten 
feet  wide  by  eight  feet  high;  and  the  water  is  derived  solely  from  the 
drainage  of  the  bit  of  woodland  which  slopes  upward  from  the  broken 
face.    Here  one  can,  by  chipping  a  bit  off,  trace  the  layers  of  the  ice- 
formation  in  a  manner  so  clear  that  the  phenomenon  seems  to  be 
worth  a  moment's  consideration.     First  the  little  falling  water  had 
become  frozen  in  sheets  and  ribs ;  then  there  was  an  interval,  pro- 
bably a  thaw,,  during  which  some  of  the  ribs  became  flattened ;  next, 
I  take  it,  there  was  a  storm,  with  a  low  temperature,  for  the  ice  was 
lace-like  in  its  formation ;   and  almost  the  same  day  there  must  have 
been  sleet  or  rain,  for  this  lace  was  covered  with  a  transparent  mass  of 
ice  two  and  a  quarter  inches  thick ;  over  this  again  came  ribs  and 
broad  intervening  hollows ;  and,  finally,  lace-work  so  exquisite  that 
I  never  before  saw  the  like  :  it  was  rather  net  than  lace,  so  minute 
were  the  perforations,  and  so  perfectly  diamond-shaped  the  pattern ; 
on  which,  at  almost  regular  intervals,  came  little  dots  of  solid  snow, 
carried  over  the  edge  of  the  rock,  and  now  more,  now  less,  over  the 
face  of  the  cascade.     Art  could  not  have  fashioned  anything  more 
cunningly,  and  I  foolishly  lingered  over  this  morsel  so  long  that  I 
had  not  more  than  time  to  reach  the  nearest  point  of  the  ridge  of 
Eisenfluh — to  say  nothing  of  going  as  far  as  the  hamlet — before  I 
became  conscious  that  I  must  return.     However,  there  was  the  Jung- 
frau,  with  the  Black  Monk  almost  in  the  foreground — as  they  say,  you 
must  make  love  to  a  Spanish  girl  through  her  confessor — and  beyond 
all  doubt,  she  was  never  seen  in  better  trim.     The  bright  sun  shone 
again  from  her  icy  peaks;  but  there  was  not  such  an  improvement  on 
her  face  as  on  that  of  her  inferior  sisters.     She  has  been  viewed  to  as 
much  advantage  in  summer  time;  but  at  any  time  I  cannot  help 
thinking  she  is  much  overrated.    The  view,  as  regards  novelty,  was 
hardly  worth  the  trouble  of  the  ascent,  and  was  certainly  not  worth 
the  danger  of  the  descent.    Often  as  circumstances  have  placed  me  in 
peril,  I  was  never  nearer  breaking  my  neck  than  when  I  slipped, 
nearly  within  sight  of  the  Bear  Hotel,  and  slid  on  my  breast  head- 
foremost for  some  thirty  yards,  stopping  on  a  little  'flat  about  four  feet 
short  of  a  jump  of  a  hundred  and  twenty  feet  in  the  clear,  among 

The  Obtrland  in  January.  143 

some  snow-laden  pine  branches.  Although  it  is  not  my  custom  to 
drink  spirits  during  Alpine  excursions,  I  was  glad  to  get  a  glass  of 
brandy  at  the  Bear,  and  to  find  myself  safe  once  more  on  the  sledge. 
The  moral  of  all  this  I  take  to  be  that  in  mid-winter  one  ought  to  be 
content  with  the  valleys  and  such  plateaux  as  may  be  gained  in  a 
sledge,  or,  if  one  must  climb,  to  take  on  an  easy  path  precisely  the 
same  precautions  as  one  would  take  on  a  difficult  one. 

The  valley  of  the  Black  Lutschen  is  marvellously  lovely  at  present. 
On  the  left  hand  the  notable  elevations  called  in  the  district  "  The 
Hand" — of  which  I  can  find  no  mention  either  in  Baedecker,  Murray, 
or  the  elaborate  French  book — are  very  charming.  Snow  just  flecks 
the  four  fingers,  while  the  thumb,  which  I  take  to  be  synonymous 
with  what  is  called  on  the  maps  the  Rothhorn,  is  almost  as  white  as 
the  Jungfrau  herself.  The  Wetterhorn,  pure  and  snow-clad  from  its 
base  at  the  upper  glacier  to  the  noble  peak,  is  seen  to  much  better 
advantage  than  in  summer  time,  and  forms  a  magnificent  background 
to  the  bleak  valley.  Some  new  bridges  are  being  constructed  over 
the  torrent  bed,  through  which  a  tiny  stream  now  ripples,  as  often 
as  not  hidden  by  ice  and  supervening  snowdrift ;  but  the  old  bridges 
are  not  by  any  means  unsafe,  and  might  very  well  be  trusted  for  the 
next  spring  floods.  Just  before  the  point  at  which  the  road  begins  its 
winding  there  are  on  the  cliff  on  the  right  a  number  of  comparatively 
small  ice  cascades,  one  of  which  is  singular  in  the  extreme.  A  series 
of  small  terraces  of  greenish-white  ice  descends  from  the  top  of  the 
almost  perpendicular  cliff  for  about  half  its  height,  and  then  is  formed 
a  column  as  perfect  as  any  one  of  those  in  Cologne  Cathedral, 
resembling  these  also  in  its  slender  and  lofty  proportions.  The 
capital  is  almost  Corinthian  in  its  florid  detail,  and  the  column  rests 
on  an  ice  bracket,  which  gives  one  the  idea  of  a  shelf  from  which 
tropical  plants  are  trailing.  The  whole  seems  as  if  the  series  of 
terraces  was  being  supported  on  this  one  beautifully  proportioned  and 
finely  finished  pillar,  which,  in  its  turn,  appears  to  rest  on  air,  for  there 
is  no  ice  on  the  cliffs  face  anywhere  below  it.  At  very  brief  intervals 
on  both  sides  of  the  valley  the  cascades  dash  out  of  horizontal  clefts 
in  the  rock,  here  and  there  suggesting  plumes  of  feathers,  so  delicate 
are  their  details ;  again  imitating  monsters  such  as  one  sees  engraved 
in  old  books.  Fantastic  to  the  extreme,  these  ice  marvels  are  ever 
pleasing,  and  when  they  are  largest,  and,  by  consequence,  least  diver- 
sified, their  colour,  which  ranges  from  pure  white  or  pale  green  to 
brown  where  they  are  mingled  with  earth,  and  pale  red  where  they 
are  tinged  with  iron,  lends  them  a  charm  that  is  less  capable  of  being 
described  than  of  being  admired. 

144  The  Gentlentatis  Magazine. 

Approaching  Grindelwald,  the  Eiger,  the  Monch,  and  the  Jung- 
frau  are  revealed  in  succession.  The  last  is,  of  course,  seen  only 
in  its  smaller  horn,  and  not  much  even  of  that  is  displayed.  Still 
there  is  enough  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun  to  entrance  the 
spectator.  I  have  never  seen  anything  in  the  Alps  to  compare  with 
the  glorious  scene  of  last  night  in  the  valley  around  Grindelwald. 
The  snow  became  a  lovely  rose  colour  on  every  western  facing  peak  and 
cliff;  and  where  the  direct  rays  did  not  strike,  the  diffused  light  made 
the  snow  crystals  gleam  again.  Then,  as  the  pink  flush  died  higher 
and  higher,  there  came  over  the  face  of  the  north-eastern  heavens  a 
green  light,  which  lasted  for  a  few  minutes  only,  and  gave  place  to  a 
rosy  hue,  which  in  its  turn  was  succeeded  by  a  paler  green,  that 
faded  at  last  into  the  darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  blue  sky  of  a  moon- 
light night  in  the  Alps.  And  then  the  moon,  which  had  been  keeping 
company  with  the  sun  for  two  or  three  hours,  had  it  all  her  own 
way,  and  bathed  the  mountains  and  the  snow  in  a  delicious  flood  of 
light  which  lasted  until  the  witching  hour  had  come  and  gone.  I 
ventured  down  to  the  glaciers  with  the  last  morsel  of  daylight,  and 
even  a  few  yards  upon  that  snout  of  the  alligator's  head  into  which 
the  lower  glacier  seems  to  form  itself.  But  nothing  could  have  been 
more  dangerous.  The  snow  was  more  slippery  than  the  ice  itself, 
and  did  not  lie  in  sufficient  depth  to  give  the  least  foothold.  With 
the  conviction  that  the  interests  neither  of  readers  nor  of  science 
would  be  furthered  by  foolhardiness,  I  unwillingly  retraced  my  paces, 
entrancing  though  the  varying  tints  of  the  ice  that  peeped  under  the 
snow  here  and  there  were  in  the  dying  light  of  day.  To  do  more 
than  glance  at  the  upper  and  more  beautiful  glacier  was  impossible, 
but  I  found  that  there  is  less  difference  than  usual  between  the  two 
in  point  of  purity.  Whether  it  be  that  the  rains,  sleet,  and  thaws  of 
winter  have  washed  clean  the  monster's  head  between  the  Eiger  and 
the  Mettenberg  I  cannot  say,  but  if  there  is  anything  to  choose  in 
point  of  dirt,  yesterday  and  to-day  the  lower  glacier  bears  away  the 
palm  of  cleanliness.  Much  of  this  may,  of  course,  be  due  to  the 
whitenesss  of  the  friendly  snow ;  but  I  think  the  guide  books  at  any 
time  do  the  lower  and  larger  glacier  an  injustice  when  they  dwell* 
upon  its  fouler  appearance. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  I  found  that  no  visitor  had  attempted 
either  glacier  since  the  first  week  of  October — indeed  the  names  of 
none  are  recorded  on  the  books  of  any  of  the  hotels  that  are  open 
since  the  seventeenth  of  that  month,  when  some  Americans  left  a 
record  of  their  journey.  The  two  guides  to  whom  I  spoke,  without 
going  so  far  as   to  say  that  an  ascent  to  the  Mer  de  Glace  was 

The  Oberland  in  yanuary.  145 

impossible,  manifested  no  alacrity  in  offering  to  make  the  attempt, 
and  scouted  the  very  idea  of  venturing  under  five  times  the  usual 
charges.  Now,  to  pay  five  times  the  usual  money,  in  order  to  secure 
fiftyfold  chances  of  virtual  suicide,  would  seem  rather  an  insane  pro- 
ceeding even  for  the  pleasure  of  saying  that  one  had  done  what  no 
other  had  ever  tried,  or  for  the  sake  of  describing  a  scene  the 
beauties  whereof  must  be  chiefly  concealed  by  sheets  of  snow. 

The  skilful  guides  to  whom  one  looks  up  in  summer  as  to  masters 
of  the  mysteries  of  mountain  lore,  are  now  engaged  in  the  ordinary 
avocations  of  Swiss  peasants.  They  are  haling  firewood  on  sledges 
through  the  snowdrifts,  and  splitting  and  piling  it  into  what  Ameri- 
cans would  call  "cords."  Or  they  carry  food  to  the  cattle  which  used 
to  roam  over  the  mountain  pastures  that  are  locally  called  Alps — as 
though  "alp  "did  not  properly  mean  peak  instead  of  pasture — and  which 
are  now  carefully  housed  in  those  scattered  chalets  that  look  so  pic- 
turesque from  a  distance  and  so  very  dirty  on  a  nearer  acquaintance. 
This  morning  even  the  Grindelwalders  confessed  that  it  was  very 
cold.  Truth  to  tell,  nothing  but  sharp  exercise  could  keep  the 
life  in  one.  The  breath  froze  upon  the  moustache,  and  the  eyes 
smarted  as  though  snuff  or  pepper  had  been  thrown  into  them.  The 
sun  rose  grandly,  dissipating  that  extraordinary  purple  tint  which  a 
clear  dawn  throws  upon  snow  anywhere  as  much  as  in  these  high 
places,  but  which  is  perhaps  intensified  just  outside  the  line  of  the 
half  suggested  rather  than  marked  shadow  of  the  mountains  that 
intercept  the  heralds  of  the  sun.  And  yet  the  sunrise,  except  when 
seen  from  a  great  eminence,  is  less  notable  than  the  sunset  among 
the  Alps,  as  well  in  winter  as  in  summer.  The  light  is  cold  and 
white.  No  rosy  flush  lights  up  the  lofty  summits ;  and  probably 
there  is  something  in  the  fact  that  at  night  in  these  regions  one 
enjoys  the  thought  that  a  hard  day's  work  is  over,  and  feels 
more  at  liberty  to  admire  that  which  can  be  seen  without  further 
labour.  In  the  morning  the  cares  of  the  day  leave  little  room  for 
romance  or  time  for  admiration.  So  it  was  with  me  to-day. 
After  a  breakfast  of  good  milk  and  bad  eggs  and  good  honey, 
paid  for  at  a  price  that  would  have  more  than  satisfied  the 
manager  of  any  railway  hotel  in  England,  I  started  for  the  lower 
glacier  to  see  the  process  of  cutting  blocks  of  ice  for  the  market 
of  poor  frivolous,  luxurious  Paris,  which  was  little  thinking  this  time 
twelve  months  back  of  sorbets  and  cabinet  wines  cooled  to  a  shade  of 
nicety.  I  did  not  see  any  blocks  actually  cut;  but  several  were 
trimmed  in  my  presence,  loaded  on  a  sledge,  and  despatched  hither 
that  they  might  be  sent,  via  Neuhaus,  Thun,  Berne,  and  Pontarlier, 

146  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

to  the  capital  of  civilisation  and  entrepot  of  all  that — vide  Victor 
Hugo  passim — was  unconquerable  in  France  by  the  Germans.  Pas- 
sing these  blocks  afterwards  on  the  road  down  it  was  curious  to  note 
that,  although  the  sun-rays  had  not  reached  them,  and  although  the 
temperature  had  never  gone  nearer  thawing  than  26  or  27  degrees 
Fahrenheit,  nevertheless  the  sharp  edges  of  the  blocks  and  nearly  all 
the  tool  marks  were  gone,  as  though  glacier  ice  thaws  when  the  air 
is  lower  than  32  degrees.     Can  that  be  so  as  a  matter  of  fact? 

There  were  two  things  worthy  of  observation  in  the  journey  down 
to  this,  the  inner  gate  of  the  Oberland.  One  was  the  thousands  of 
crows  which  fairly  blackened  now  the  air  as  they  flew,  now  the  snow 
where  they  settled.  The  extreme  cold  has  laid  not  a  few  of  these 
predatory  ornithological  negroes  dead  by  the  roadside,  but  still  they 
rise  in  myriads  and  haunt  the  neighbourhood  of  the  chalets,  which 
may  aftord  a  morsel  of  food  over  which  to  have  a  battle  royal.  Any- 
thing like  the  number  of  these  birds  I  have  never  seen.  In  one  flock, 
if  I  may  use  the  word,  I  had  counted  up  to  230  when  they  rose,  and 
then  they  were  not  half  numbered.  The  other  point  was  the  change 
which  one  night  had  wrought  in  the  shape  of  the  masses  of  ice  on  the 
Rothenfluh.  One  piece,  which  yesterday  was  a  delicate  fringe,  was 
to-day  solid  as  a  knife-blade.  Another  was  yesterday  a  congeries  of 
huge  stalactites — two  hours  ago  it  was  but  a  serrated  edge.  And 
yet  there  has  been  no  thaw,  no  wind,  no  sleet,  no  snow,  no  rain,  to 
affect  these  beautiful  forms.  King  Frost  appears  to  deal  with  them 
as  a  child  deals  with  a  box  of  bricks.  Now  they  take  one  shape,  now 
another,  without  apparent  law.  Any  artist  who  may  accept  my  advice 
to  come  here  and  copy  nature  and  make  his  fortune,  must  be  content 
to  hurry  in  his  transcript  of  the  patterns  provided  for  him,  or  be  dis- 
appointed, when  he  returns  to  finish  his  sketch,  to  find  that  Nature  has 
been  beforehand  with  him,  and  given  him  new  beauties  instead  of  old. 

Charles  Williams. 


A  "Stalk"  in  Thibet. 


(O  SYLVANUS  URBAN.— In  the  old  days,  when  any 
remarkable  event  transpired,  particulars  of  it  were  sent 
to  the  Editor  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine.  May  I  be 
permitted  to  copy  the  ancient  notion  ?  I  ask  you  with 
the  greater  confidence  because  the  subject  I  wish  to  introduce 
belongs  to  "sports  and  pastimes,"  which  you  treat  so  well — 
and  through  famous  pens — in  the  modernised  pages  of  your  illustrious 
periodical.  If  your  admirable  contributor,  "  H.  H.  D.,"  whom  you 
introduced  into  your  shilling  series  a  few  years  ago,  had  been  alive,  he 
would  have  thoroughly  appreciated  the  little  sketch  which  I  enclose. 
It  is  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Fred  Wilson,  a  well-known  sportsman  in 
India,  and  mentioned,  as  you  will  no  doubt  remember,  by  Colonel 
Markham  in  his  "  Sport  in  the  Himalayas."  Here  is  my  friend's 
sketch : — 

I  have  just  got  back  from  a  little  excursion  in  Thibet.  My  feet,  I 
fancy,  will  never  be  what  they  were,  for  though  all  symptoms  of  gout 
have  disappeared,  they  fail  me  a  little  in  very  rough  ground.  I  could 
■do  well  enough  on  the  moors,  or  in  a  stubble  or  turnip-field,  or  in  one 
of  your  English  woods  or  plantations  ;  but  all  these  are  very  different 
from  the  Himalayas.  Set  to  work  and  build  four  or  five  miles  of  a 
broad  flight  of  stone  steps  to  the  moon,  send  an  army  of  navvies  with 
sledge  hammers  to  smash  all  to  pieces,  and  you  will  have  something 
akin  to  many  of  the  hills  in  Thibet.  Ponies  do  well  enough  on  the 
roads,  but  they  soon  get  lame  if  taken  out  after  game.  Yaks  are 
better,  and  I  rode  one  of  these  all  the  time.  They  will  go  almost 
anywhere  your  nerves  will  allow  you  to  take  them ;  but  one  keeps 
for  safety  and  comfort  on  the  best  ground.  From  this  and  other 
causes  my  bag  was  a  very  small  one,  and  Harry  Fowler  might  easily 
have  beaten  me  even  in  weight  It  consisted  of  two  Ovis  Ammon,  a 
few  hares,  and  a  few  sand  grouse — the  hares  and  grouse  shot  for  the 
kitchen.  In  a  space  of  country  the  size  of  Yorkshire  there  are  only 
four  or  live  flocks  of  Ovis  Amnion^  so  you  may  be  sure  it  is  no  easy 
matter  to  find  them.  The  first  week  was  entirely  blank,  and  it  was 
not  till  Friday  of  the  second  that  I  saw  any.    This  was  the  ist  of 

148  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

September,  though  I  did  not  recollect  that  till  some  days  after. 
About  ten  o'clock  I  spied  some  females  on  a  ridge  nearly  a  mile 
away,  and  leaving  my  riding  yak,  and  another  which  we  always  took 
with  us  to  carry  game,  in  charge  of  one  of  the  Tartars,  I  went  to 
stalk  the  sheep.  There  was  a  wide  ravine  to  cross,  and  going  down 
one  side  of  this  and  up  the  other  took  some  time.  When  I  reached 
the- place  I  found,  to  my  great  mortification,  the  sheep  had  also 
crossed,  and  gone  to  the  hill  I  had  come  from,  but  a  good  distance 
below.  I  was  debating  with  myself  whether  to  go  back  and  follow 
them,  or  go  on  to  fresh  ground,  when,  sweeping  the  further  hills  with 
the  glass,  I  had  the  satisfaction  to  see  five  old  rams  quietly  grazing. 
I  sent  the  Tartar  who  was  with  me  back  to  beckon  to  his  comrade 
to  come  with  the  yaks,  and  while  he  was  away  the  rams  lay  down  for 
their  noonday  siesta.  When  the  yaks  came  we  all  went  on  about  half  a 
mile,  and  then  I  left  them  and  proceeded  to  the  stalk.  I  got  within 
about  three  hundred  yards,  and  found  there  was  no  possibility  of  getting 
a  rifle's  length  nearer  unperceived.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
fire  from  where  I  was  at  once,  or  to  lie  still  till  the  rams  got  up  and 
commenced  feeding  again,  for  the  chance  of  their  coming  my  way.  As 
I  was  not  sure  of  hitting  at  the  distance,  I  chose  the  later  plan,  and  lay 
watching  the  magnificent  beasts  for  more  than  an  hour.  Two  seemed  to 
be  asleep,  and  three  lying  quiet  but  wakeful.  At  last,  one  after  another, 
they  got  up  and  commenced  grazing,  but,  unfortunately,  they  turned 
their  faces  the  wrong  way,  and  every  step  would  take  them  still  farther 
off.  It  was  getting  well  on  in  the  afternoon,  and  as  they  might  not  graze 
out  of  sight  so  as  to  allow  me  to  get  up  and  follow  till  dark,  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  chance  the  shot.  If  they  had  been  another 
hundred  yards  off  I  should  have  left  them  and  bivouacked  somewhere 
near,  and  gone  after  them  in  the  morning ;  but  three  hundred  yards 
is  not  such  a  very  long  shot  for  a  first-rate  Henry  express  rifle,  so 
singling  out  the  ram  which  I  thought  had  the  finest  horns,  I  took  a 
very  steady  aim,  with  a  good  rest,  and  fired.  The  report  was  like  the 
signal  to  start  for  the  Doncaster  St.  Leger.  The  rams  started  off  at 
a  racing  pace,  so  fast  that  I  could  not  get  in  the  second  barrel  ere 
they  were  out  of  range  entirely,  but,  to  my  great  delight,  the  one  I 
had  fired  at  soon  began  to  lag  behind,  and  in  a  few  seconds  more 
was  left  by  itself.  The  Tartars,  who  had  been  watching  proceedings, 
came  on  with  the  yaks,  and  we  were  soon  on  the  trail.  Waiting 
behind  any  ridge  or  swell  when  the  ram  was  in  sight,  and  following 
as  fast  as  we  could  when  hid  from  view,  evening  closed  on  us  without 
the  chance  of  another  shot.  There  was  but  little  blood  on  the  track, 
but  enough  to  show  the  wound  was  more  than  a  graze,  and  we  might 

A  Stalk  in  Thibet.  149 

find  the  animal  dead  in  the  morning ;  so,  though  a  bivouac  without 
bedding  in  these  cold  regions  is  anything  but  pleasant,  we  looked  out 
for  the  most  sheltered  place,  and  made  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  we 
could  for  the  night.     Fire  was  out  of  the  question,  for  there  was 
nothing  to  burn.     Fortunately  I  had  a  small  blanket  under  the 
saddle  to  prevent  galling,  and,  wrapping  myself  in  it,  did  not  suffer 
so  much  from  the  cold  as  I  feared.     A  few  more  of  such  nights 
though  wouldn't  be  a  cure  for  the  gout.     There  was  a  little  cold  tea 
left  in  the  bottle,  and  some  remains  of  breakfast  in  the  bag,  of  which 
I  made  a  supper,  and  then  tried  to  go  to  sleep.     In  this  I  was  not 
very  successful,  and  felt  very  much  inclined  to  follow  the  track  by  the 
bright  moonlight     Such  nights  always  seem  very  long,  but  daybreak 
came  at  last,  and  it  was  a  great  relief  to  be  moving  and  to  get  warm 
again.     There  was  no  difficulty  in  picking  up  the  trail,  and  we 
followed  it  up  one  hillside  and  down  another  for  some  miles  till  I 
began  to  fear  we  should  see  no  more  of  the  ram.     There  was  no 
blood,  but  the  footprints  in  the  sandy  or  gravelly  soil  were  easy 
enough  to  follow.    At  last  we  came  on  a  wide  plain  and  disturbed 
a  troop  of  wild  horses,  and  these  trotted  on  in  front  for  some  dis- 
tance, nearly  obliterating  the  tracks  of  our  ram.     To  remedy  this,  I 
halted  and  sent  one  of  the  Tartars  round  to  drive  the  horses  on  one 
side,  in  which  he  succeeded,  and  our  way  was  free  again.     It  was 
nearly  noon,  and  I  was  getting  both  tired  and  hungry,  when  one  of 
the  Tartars,  who  went  on  ahead  a  little  whenever  I  was  in  the  saddle, 
crouched  down,  and  I  knew  he  saw  either  our  ram  or  some  other 
game.  I  threw  myself  off  the  yak,  unslung  the  rifle,  and  when  I  got  up 
to  him  saw  the  ram  lying  down,  but  apparently  not  much  the  matter 
with  it.     It  was  out  of  range,  and  with  the  glass  I  could  not  see 
where  it  was  hit     In  all  probability  it  was  ours,  being  on  the  track 
which  we  had  never  lost,  and  by  itself.     I  made  a  careful  stalk,  and 
got  a  hundred  yards  from  it,  and  the  express  at  anything  like  that 
distance  is  as  certain  and  deadly  as  any  of  the  wonderful  weapons  in 
Cooper's  novels,  so  I  felt  and  knew  the  chase  was  now  over.    The 
ram  never  got  on  its  legs  again,  the  little  piece  of  lead  sped  to  its 
destination,  and  in  another  moment  I  was  walking  up  to  the  dead 
animal     It  was  a  splendid  specimen.     The  skin  was  of  no  use,  it 
being  the  time  these  sheep  change  their  coats,  but  the  horns  were 
magnificent  ones.     The  flesh  was  more  than  one  yak  could  carry. 

All  this  time  we  had  been  going  right  away  from  the  camp,  and  it 

was  getting  well  on  in  the  afternoon  ere  we  had  skinned  and  cut  up 

the  sheep  and  loaded  the  yak.     I  had  a  shoulder  of  the  mutton 

strapped  on  each  side  behind  the  saddle,  and  we  went  on  our  way 

Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  M 

1 50  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

rejoicing,  the  Tartars  having  made  a  breakfast  on  a  portion  of  the 
raw  liver.  I  tasted  it,  but  did  not  join  in  this  particular  meal. 
It  was  after  midnight  when  we  reached  the  camp,  and  the  pint  of  hot* 
tea  immediately  got  ready  for  me — wasn't  it  good  ?  To  enjoy  a  cup 
of  hot  tea  you  must  come  and  take  a  long  day's  walk  over  the 
Thibet  hills  and  get  home  to  it  just  at  dusk  or  after  dark.  If  you 
were  a  deer-stalker  you  would  want  to  know  where  the  first  bullet  hit 
the  ram  for  it  to  travel  such  a  distance  and  to  live  nearly  twenty- 
four  hours  afterwards.  It  had  struck  the  fore  leg,  but  had  not  broken 
the  bone,  and  also  hit  the  breast  bone. 

The  Ovis  Ammoti  is  the  largest  but  one  of  all  the  wild  sheep.  It 
is  the  mouflon  of  Buffon,  and  the  argali  of  modern  naturalists.  It  is 
found  widely  spread  on  the  high  table  lands  of  Thibet  The  largest 
of  all  the  wild  sheep  is  the  Ovis  Poliiy  found  in  Pamir,  about  the  sources 
of  the  Oxus.  I  have  not  been  there,  and  I  think  the  only  European 
of  the  present  century  who  has  was  Lieut  Wood.  He  was  no  sports- 
man, and  merely  mentions  the  existence  of  the  animal.  It  was  to 
this  part  of  the  country  Mr.  Hayward  was  proceeding  when  he  was 
so  brutally  murdered. 

Let  me  supplement  this,  to  all  sportsmen,  very  interesting  narra- 
tive by  the  remark  that  the  Ovis  Ammon  is  so  difficult  of  approach 
that  only  five  or  six  of  our  countrymen  have  been  successful  in 
bagging  these  magnificent  wild  sheep.  I  write  this  on  the  banks  of 
the  Tagus.  Armed  with  the  cap  of  Fortunatus  and  Campbell's 
"  Pleasures  of  Hope  "  I  came  here  in  the  spring  in  search  of  an 
El  Dorado.  I  wander  amid  primeval  forests,  beneath  a  bright  blue 
sky,  and  I  pity  Sylvanus  Urban's  foggy  quarters  in  the  regions  of  St 
John's  Gate.  I  confess  to  a  thrill  of  pleasure  pn  entering  the  general 
room  at  the  Hotel  Central,  Lisbon,  to  find  a  new  copy  of  the 
Gentleman's,  with  an  instalment  of  the  new  poet's  latest  poem. 

I  could  not  manage  the  campaign  in  Scotland  this  year,  or  you 

would  have  had  specimens  of  both  the  fur  and  the  feather.    Although 

we  have  no  game  in  the  Peninsula,  we  find  plenty  of  "food  for 

powder,"  the  banks  of  the  Tagus  being  a  favourite  resort  for  a  great 

variety  of  long-beaks,  i.e.  woodcock,  snipe,  teal,  duck,  &c.     I  went 

out  the  other  day  and  made  a  famous  bag,  chiefly  snipe.     Fancy 

this  :    we  had  breakfast  al  fresco,  in  an  orange    grove,   the    trees 

splendid  with  golden  fruit;    the  month,  December!      I    will    not 

torture  you  further,  but  hope  your  sporting  readers  will  enjoy  a  Stalk 

in  Thibet 

C.  S. 

Life  in  London. 


|HE  phases  of  life  in  London  are  abundant  enough  to 
keep  this  series  of  papers  running  while  Sylvanus  Urban 
sits  in  his  chair,  though  he  should  live  ten  times  as  long 
yet  as  the  past  history  of  his  magazine.  There  is  no 
need  to  look  backward  or  forward  for  subjects.  Yet,  while  the 
wonderful  drama  is  enacting  before  him,  the  reflective  Londoner  must 
close  his  eyes  sometimes  and  speculate  on  the  future  of  life  in  this 
great  city.  What  London  is  to-day  we  know.  What  may  it  be  only 
one  hundred  years  hence  ?  The  period  is  short  The  grandchildren 
of  about  a  million  of  our  neighbours  now  dwelling  on  the  banks  of 
the  Thames  will  live  to  report  on  the  aspects  of  the  capital  in  1973- 
What  is  the  tale  they  will  have  to  tell  ? 

In  science,  invention,  and  discovery,  we  can  never  imagine  far 
beyond  immediate  possibilities.  Whatever  practical  thing  can  be 
really  conceived  of  can  very  soon  be  realised.  Speculation  on  the 
material  conditions  of  the  future  must  therefore  at  the  best  be  vague. 
Nevertheless  there  are  very  good  grounds  for  building  a  passably 
probable  structure  of  guesses  on  the  future  of  this  great  capital  for 
two  or  three  generations. 

Population  is  the  first  element  in  the  inquiry.  How  many  people 
will  there  be  assembled  round  the  old  city  as  a  centre  in  1973  ?  I 
will  assume  a  continued  increase  during  the  forthcoming  century. 
The  point  is  open  to  doubt ;  but  the  balance  of  argument  is  largely 
in  favour  of  the  growth  of  the  capital,  decade  by  decade,  if  not  year 
by  year,  at  least  for  some  ages  yet.  A  great  city  adds  to  its 
population  by  two  processes :  one  the  natural  increase,  and  the  other 
the  attraction  of  strangers.  Both  these  causes,  so  far  as  one  may 
judge,  are  likely  to  remain  operative  for  a  long  time. 

Almost  nothing  is  known  about  the  laws  which  regulate  the  natural 
increase,  and  there  are  instances  in  the  world  of  populations 
unaccountably  standing  still  in  point  of  numbers,  and  even  receding- 
But  there  is  no  such  instance  in  the  history  of  those  races  of  north- 
western Europe  by  whom  chiefly  this  country  is  peopled.  The 
phenomenon  of  the  rapid  extension  of  the  Anglo-Saxons  will  probably^ 
not  go  on  for  ever ;  but  it  can  hardly  stop  suddenly.    It  has  been  at 

152  TJie  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

work  for  upwards  of  a  thousand  years,  and  never  more  remarkably 
than  in  our  own  times.  It  is  surely  good  for  another  century. 
Natural  tendencies  like  these  in  the  blood  of  particular  races,  mani- 
fested with  fair  uniformity  during  a  thousand  years,  do  not  cease  in  a 
generation  or  two  without  notice  and  without  external  cause.  The 
times  of  ignorance  and  folly  are  gone  by  when  society  was  likely  to 
make  and  persist  in  any  social  blunder  large  enough  to  check  the 
development  of  the  physical  proclivities  of  the  population.  It  would 
be  rash  to  attempt  to  anticipate  the  possibilities  of  a  long  indefinite 
period  of  the  future ;  but  for  the  small  space  of  a  hundred  years  a 
high  degree  of  probability  attaches  to  the  assumption  that  the  natural 
increase  of  our  population  will  follow  the  course  of  our  experience. 

But  the  artificial  increase?  Is  the  habit  of  clustering  round  a 
great  centre  likely  to  continue  ?  It  is  hard  to  imagine  a  decline  of 
the  influences  which  cause  London  to  grow  by  external  accretion. 
Its  commercial  advantages  are  at  least  as  great  in  the  prospect  as  in 
the  retrospect.  Its  position  and  facilities  for  trading  are  at  least  as 
good,  comparatively,  as  in  any  past  period ;  and  the  start  it  has  in  the 
race,  by  reason  of  its  immense  population  of  consumers  and  intelli- 
gent distributors,  heavily  handicaps  all  competitors.  If  London  were 
cribbed  in  by  physical  boundaries  her  manufactories  would  gradually 
betake  themselves  to  other  quarters;  but  there  are  no  practical 
limits  to  the  expansion  of  her  area.  Whole  counties  lie  round  her, 
waiting  to  come  within  the  pale.  All  Essex  and  Kent,  as  well  as 
Surrey,  are  open  to  become  her  workshop,  and  she  is  surrounded  by 
a  fair  country  for  pleasant  homes  for  the  people  of  coming  genera- 

In  attractiveness,  independently  of  business  advantages,  time  seems 
all  on  our  side.  London  is  healthful  beyond  almost  all  her  compeers, 
and  promises  at  least  to  keep  pace  with  the  best  of  them  in  improving 
her  sanitary  condition.  As  she  grows  in  size  she  grows  in  beauty. 
Take  them  for  all  in  all,  there  are  no  more  charming  suburbs  in  the 
island.  Every  year  adds  some  improvement,  some  grace,  and  some 
of  the  facilities  and  advantages  associated  with  a  predominant  centre 
of  civilisation.  Nearly  all  the  evils  of  Old  London  are  on  the  mend. 
Its  river  walls  grow  into  carriage*  drives  and  promenades.  Broad 
streets  are  pushing  through  narrow  and  squalid  regions ;  parks  and 
open  spaces  are  preserved  with  all  possible  jealousy ;  pleasure  and 
recreation  grounds  are  opened  in  newly-peopled  quarters.  The  town 
is  now  in  a  transition  state.  Works  are  beginning  which  may 
take  a  quarter  of  a  century  to  complete,  and  meanwhile  we  shall 
witness  the  commencement  of  other  undertakings.    Whoever  lives 

Life  in  London.  153 

through  the  next  twenty  years  will  see  the  fruits  ripen.  There  will 
be  vast  improvements  in  the  mere  appearance  of  the  capital.  As  an 
attractive  city  in  a  material  sense,  in  comparison  with  other  great 
centres,  London  is  running  a  winning  race. 

Nor  is  the  charm  of  the  city,  as  the  capital  of  the  empire,  likely  to 
wane.  Centralisation  increases.  -There  is  a  constant  gravitation  of 
superior  forces  to  this  centre.  Genius,  energy,  enterprise,  fly  to 
London,  as  the  focus  of  power.  It  is  the  one  spot  from  which  the 
country  can  be  moved.  Not  a  sign  arises  of  a  reaction  upon  this 
tendency.  No  one  thinks  of  proposing  new  centres  of  imperial 
action.  Facilities  of  intercourse  are  all  on  the  same  side.  The 
time  is  coming  when,  by  turns,  the  whole  population  of  the  kingdom 
will  spend  a  portion  of  their  year  in  the  capital.  Our  colonies  will 
by-and-by  be  tenanted  by  millions  where  there  are  now  only  hun- 
dreds and  thousands,  and  there  must  be  constant  personal  inter- 
course between  the  colonists  and  our  metropolis.  The  ratio  of  this 
coming  and  going  will  increase  as  travelling  becomes  easier  and 
cheaper.  The  mere  temporary  population,  which  is  now  very  large, 
will  be  magnified  immensely,  and  the  more  there  may  be  who  come 
the  larger  will  be  the  numbers  who  will  remain.  If  Great  Britain's 
good  fortune  continue,  and  her  children  everywhere  increase,  as  they 
surely  must  in  the  century  before  us,  London,  as  the  seat  of  Govern- 
ment, the  centre  of  attraction  for  genius  and  ambition,  the  very 
temple  of  the  highest  arts  and  the  source  of  the  foremost  efforts  of 
thought,  can  hardly  fail  to  maintain  the  position  she  now  holds  in 
relation  to  the  empire. 

But  what  of  her  rivals  elsewhere  in  the  world?  If  London  should 
hold  her  own  in  competition  with  Paris,  Berlin,  Rome,  Vienna, 
Madrid,  and  New  York,  may  not  all  the  old  capitals  lose  caste  before 
the  wonderful  uprising  of  some  new  empire  city,  such  as  Chicago  or 
Melbourne  may  become  in  a  hundred  years  ? 

It  is  impossible  to  estimate  all  the  chances,  but  the  very  greatness 
in  commerce,  in  wealth,  and  in  population  of  any  city  in  the  distant 
continents  of  the  West,  the  South,  or  the  East,  would  probably  tend 
only  to  increase  the  importance  of  London,  which  makes  haste  to 
stretch  forth  its  hand  to  every  new  people  assembled  anywhere  for 
the  purposes  of  civilisation.  We  have  here  a  machinery  which  has 
been  at  work,  on  a  constantly  increasing  scale,  for  two  thousand 
years,  always  adapting  itself  to  the  times,  always  finding  itself  equal 
to  new  emergencies.  We  have  the  imperishable  advantages  of 
tory  and  tradition  side  by  side  with  a  great  share  of  the  1 
modern  genius  and  enterprise.     New  cities  in  countries  of  s 

154  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

natural  gifts  like  that  in  which  Chicago  has  sprung  up,  may  run 
ahead  of  London  in  population  and  wealth,  and  outshine  the  ancient 
capital  of  Britain  in  many  ways.  It  is  more  than  possible,  it  is  quite 
probable,  that  the  next  hundred  years  will  see  some  such  experience 
as  this ;  for  who  can  measure  the  resources  which  lie  almost  untouched 
in  lands  like  America  and  Australia  ?  I  would  not  hazard  the  pre- 
diction that  in  wealth  and  population  no  city,"  new  or  old,  will  run 
past  London.  All  I  anticipate  is  that,  within  the  period  set  down, 
this  great  city  will  go  on  increasing,  in  all  that  makes  her  famous  to- 
day, at  the  steady  pace  at  which  she  has  been  moving  within  our 
own  time. 

If  I  were  looking  forward  for  a  thousand  years  I  should  hesitate  to 
make  any  prediction  with  regard  to  London.  The  possibilities  of 
the  next  ten  centuries  are  as  far  beyond  conception  almost  as  the 
conditions  of  life  on  another  planet,  and  though  I  have  no  belief 
whatever  in  the  picture  of  the  sketching  New  Zealander,  and  am 
disposed  to  think  that  in  coming  times  only  earthquakes  or  great 
geological  changes  can  sweep  away  civilisation  from  any  of  its 
strongholds,  I  do  not  think  that  there  are  in  existence  elements  of 
probability  enough  to  lend  interest  to  a  speculation  upon  what  this 
capital  may  be  at  a  date  so  long  distant  But  the  materials  are 
considerable  by  which  the  likelihoods  of  the  short  period  of  one 
hundred  years  may  be  weighed,  and  the  inference  seems  to  me  a  fair 
one  that  London  will  continue  at  least  for  so  long  to  grow  as  she  has 
grown  before  our  eyes. 

A  population  of  about  thirteen  millions — that  is  the  first  result  I 
find  if  these  inferences  are  good.  The  figures  are  a  little  startling. 
A  city  of  thirteen  millions  of  inhabitants  is  altogether  outside  the 
range  of  our  experience  or  knowledge.  Probably  not  a  third  of  that 
number  were  ever  yet  settled  on  one  spot  The  population  of  the 
capital  of  China  has  been  guessed  at  four  millions,  but  nearly  all 
authorities  place  the  figure  much  lower,  and  no  other  city  has  ever 
been  known  to  contain  so  many  people  as  are  returned  as  the  actual 
number  in  London  on  the  3rd  of  April,  187 1 — viz.,  3,254,260.  It  is 
true  that  one  Griraaldi,  some  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  set  down 
the  population  of  Pekin  at  sixteen  millions ;  but  that  was  a  leap  in 
the  dark.  In  our  time  the  numbers  are  thought  to  be  under  rather 
than  over  four  millions ;  while  Jeddo,  the  next  most  densely  popu- 
lated city  of  the  East,  has  probably  less  than  two  millions.  The 
inhabitants  of  old  Rome,  the  capital  of  the  civilised  world,  were 
never  thought  to  exceed  two  millions;  they  were  estimated  by 
Gibbon  at  about  a  million  and  a  quarter  in  the  fifth  century.    But 

Life  in  London.  *55 

Rome  was  artificially  incapable  of  extension  in  area.  Villas  and 
gardens  and  other  private  possessions  surrounded  the  city  like  a 
barrier,  and  in  order  to  make  the  most  of\the  space  within  these 
limits  houses  were  built  so  lofty  that,  to  prevent  frequent  accidents, 
the  Emperors  were  compelled  to  put  in  force  a  decree  that  private 
buildings  should  not  run  higher  from  the  ground  than  seventy  feet. 
Pekin  is  even  more  rigidly  walled  in,  and  its  area  is  not  more  than 
fourteen  square  miles  \  while  the  whole  of  London  covers  a  hundred 
.and  twenty-two  square  miles,  and  may  expand  itself,  without  hin- 
drance, in  any  direction.  The  English  capital,  indeed,  adopts  now 
a  policy  which,  until  a  comparatively  recent  date,  was  never  thought 
of — it  lays  itself  out  for  an  unlimited  growth  of  population.  The  old 
districts  are  widened  up,  and  the  new  are  constructed  to  be  loosely 
peopled.  The  ancient  close-packing  system  has  ceased,  and  light 
and  space  are  being  let  into  overcrowded  localities.  There  are  now 
half  a  million  more  people  than  there  were  in  1861,  but  the  traffic  in 
the  chief  thoroughfares  is  easier.  There  are  fewer  dead-locks  in  the 
streets,  and  business  and  pleasure  are  managed  with  greater  facility. 
These  are  the  results  of  the  simple  fact  that  London  has  within  the 
last  quarter  of  a  century  recognised  the  coming  of  the  stress  of  an 
unparalleled  population,  and  made  preparations  to  meet  it  Three 
hundred  years  ago  Queen  Elizabeth  issued  a  proclamation  forbidding 
the  erection  of  new  buildings  "  where  none  such  had  existed  within 
the  memory  of  man ;"  for  the  extension  of  the  metropolis  was  not  only 
Calculated  to  encourage  the  increase  of  the  plague,  but  was  thought 
to  create  trouble  in  governing  such  multitudes — a  dearth  of  victuals, 
the  multiplying  of  beggars,  an  increase  of  artisans  more  than  could 
live  together,  and  the  impoverishment  of  other  cities  for  lack  of 
inhabitants.  At  that  time  the  whole  population  of  England  and 
Wales  was  probably  less  than  five  millions,  of  whom  certainly  not 
more  than  half  a  million  lived  in  London.  But  the  inhabitable 
area  then  was  very  limited.  Without  any  of  the  modern  machinery 
of  speedy  communication  and  protection  from  depredation,  a  city 
stretching  upwards  of  eleven  miles  from  north  to  south  and  from  east 
to  west  would  have  been  an  impossibility. 

The  estimate  of  a  population  of  13,000,000  in  1973  is  based  upon 
the  increase  of  the  ten  years  from  1861  to  187 1,  which  was  one  and 
a  half  per  cent  per  annum.  The  increase  would  be  much  greater — 
showing  a  population  of  something  like  16,000,000 — if  calculated  on 
the  rate  of  accretion  in  the  first  fifty  years  of  the  present  century,  and 
still  more  if  reckoned  upon  the  percentage  of  the  last  twenty  or  thirty 
years.    The  ratio  of  increase  of  the  last  ten  years,  which  gives  the 

156  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

result  of  13,000,000  in  1973,  is  the  lowest  since  1841.  But  that  the 
rate  has  fallen  somewhat  since  1861  can  hardly  be  taken  to  indicate 
a  permanent  turn  in  the  tide.  The  decade  in  which  occurred  the 
American  civil  war,  the  stoppage  of  our  cotton  manufacture,  the 
greatest  financial  crisis  of  the  century,  and  a  general  depression  of 
trade,  is  not  a  fair  gauge  of  the  tendency  of  the  population  of  a  great 
city  which  suffered  severely  from  all  those  causes.  The  fact  that  in 
such  a  time  the  people  of  the  capital  increased  by  447,000  is 
evidence  of  the  determined  growth  of  London  under  difficulties. 
Judging  from  the  state  of  things  since  the  census  was  taken  nearly 
two  years  ago,  the  increase  of  population  between  187 1  and  1881 
will  be  at  a  greater  rate  than  one  and  a  half  per  cent  Thirteen 
millions,  therefore,  a  hundred  years  hence,  is  a  very  low  estimate  for 
the  population  of  London,  and  I  can  imagine  nothing  short  of  irre- 
trievable national  calamity,  or  a  complete  and  wholly  unlooked  for 
revolution  in  the  conditions  of  civilisation  in  this  part  of  the  world, 
that  can  prevent  the  realisation  of  that  estimate. 

A  population  of  not  less  than  thirteen  millions,  and  a  hundred  years 
more  of  progress  in  the  arts,  in  science,  literature,  the  drama :  from  this 
date  a  century  of  inventions,  discoveries,  new  modes  of  increasing 
productions  and  sparing  toil,  new  pleasures  and  comforts,  higher  know- 
ledge of  all  knowable  things,  inestimable  improvements  in  the  art  of 
health,  better  laws  and  principles  of  government — Who  can  form  a 
conception  of  Life  in  London  at  the  en4  of  that  hundred  years  ? 
In  point  of  time  the  period  is  short ;  but  there  have  been  no  ages  of 
the  past  by  which  may  be  measured  this  century  forward.  A  hundred 
years  ago  the  machinery  which  regulates  our  habits  and  modes  of 
living  to-day  was  not  thought  of,  and  we  were  still  struggling,  not  very 
hopefully,  to  emulate  the  highest  civilisation  of  old  Greece  and  Rome. 
In  all,  except  pure  art,  we  have  now  gone  far  past  those  ancient 
standards,  and  so  close  have  we  run  once  or  twice  on  the  heels  of  the 
divine  masters  of  the  past  that  the  next  high  wave  of  genius  or  the 
next  after  that  may  land  us  far  ahead  of  old  history,  even  in  the 
accomplishments  in  which  the  first  civilised  nations  most  excelled. 
If  the  story  of  the  human  race  thus  far  may  teach  us  anything,  it 
tells  us  now  that  we  are  past  the  dangers  which  three  or  four  times 
thrust  back  the  advanced  races  and  rendered  necessary  the  beginning 
of  the  work  of  civilisation  afresh.  Blunders  so  gigantic  and 
irreparable  as  those  of  old  cannot  be  repeated. 

On  this  foundation,  I  think  we  may  fairly  speculate  on  the 
prospects  of  Life  in  London  in  1973. 

Richard  Gowing. 

The  Republican  Impeachment. 

»N  his  pamphlet,  "  The  Impeachment  of  the  House  of  Bruns- 
wick," Mr.  Bradlaugh  says :  "  The  right  of  the  members  of 
the  House  of  Brunswick  to  succeed  to  the  Throne  is  a  right 
accruing  only  from  the  Act  of  Settlement,  it  being  clear  that, 
except  from  this  statute,  they  have  no  claim  to  the  Throne.  It  is 
therefore  submitted  that  should  Parliament  in  its  wisdom  see  fit  to 
enact  that,  after  the  death  or  abdication  of  her  present  Majesty,  the 
Throne  shall  no  longer  be  filled  by  a  member  of  the  House  of 
Brunswick,  such  an  enactment  would  be  perfectly  within  the  compe- 
tence of  Parliament."  In  the  November  number  of  this  magazine  I 
maintained  that  for  enacting  purposes  the  Parliament  consists  of  the 
Sovereign,  the  House  of  Lords,  and  the  House  of  Commons — a  Bill 
does  not  become  law  until  it  is  voted  by  the  Commons,  voted  by  the* 
Lords,  and  assented  to  by  the  Sovereign,  and  that  therefore  Parlia- 
ment could  not  constitutionally  deprive  the  Prince  of  Wales  of  the 
reversion  to  the  Crown  without  the  assent  of  the  Sovereign.  I  also 
said  that  an  Act  barring  the  succession  of  the  lawful  heir  to  the 
Throne,  even  if  it  were  duly  passed  and  assented  to  by  Parliament, 
would  be  a  revolutionary  proceeding.  Mr.  Bradlaugh  replies  :  "  That 
the  British  Parliament  can  prevent  the  succession  of  the  lawful  heir  to 
the  Throne  is  certain."  He  refers  to  the  revolution  of  1688,  and 
says  :  "If  Parliament  has  and  had  no  right  to  exclude  or  prevent  the 
succession  of  a  'lawful  heir/  then  the  members  of  the  present 
House  of  Brunswick  are  illegally  on  the  Throne — in  fact,  usurpers. 
I  contend  that  they  are  lawfully  on  the  Throne,  and  may  be  as 
lawfully  ejected  from  it."  Mr.  Bradlaugh  says  that  the  number  of 
persons  who  think  with  him  is  not  scant  If  the  constitutional 
history  of  England  were  taught  in  schools,  the  number  of  those  who 
assented  to  Mr.  Bradlaugh's  historical  argument  would  be  countable 
on  his  thumbs. 

With  regard  to  Mr.  Bradlaugh's  quotations  from  the  Parliamentary 
debates  in  1 788,  it  will  be  enough  to  remark  that  I  have  not  denied 
the  authority  of  the  two  Houses  of  Parliament  as  set  forth  in  the 
dictum  of  Mr.  Pitt :  "  That  no  person  had  a  right  to  the  Throne 
independent  of  the  consent  of  the  two  Houses."  The  component 
parts  of  Parliament  are  conjointly  and  severally  creatures  of  the 

158  The  Gentleman! s  Magazine. 

law.  Neither  the  Sovereign  nor  the  Houses  of  Parliament  are  above 
the  law.  Mr.  Bradlaugh  might  have  cited  more  formally  definite 
authorities  than  extracts  from  debates  in  Parliament  Sir  Edward 
Coke,  referring  to  the  power  of  Parliament,  says  it  is  "so  transcendent 
and  absolute  that  it  cannot  be  confined,  either  for  causes  or  persons, 
within  any  bounds."  Bracton  says  of  the  Sovereign,  "  the  law  makes 
him  king."  The  12  and  13  William  III.  c  2  (the  Act  of  Settlement) 
recites  that  "  whereas  the  laws  of  England  are  the  birthright  of  the 
people  thereof,  and  all  the  kings  and  queens  who  shall  ascend  the 
Throne  of  this  realm  ought  to  administer  the  government  of  the  same 
according  to  the  said  laws."  The  6  Anne,  c.  7,  makes  it  high  treason 
for  any  one  to  assert  "  that  the  kings  or  queens  of  this  realm,  by  and 
with  the  authority  of  Parliament,  are  not  able  to  make  laws  and 
statutes  of  sufficient  force  and  validity  to  limit  and  bind  the  Crown 
and  the  descent,  limitation,  inheritance,  and  government  thereof." 

Here,  then,  I  have  given  the  highest  authorities  as  to  the  power 
of  Parliament — that  is  to  say,  I  have  quoted  from  Acts  of  Parliament 
So  far,  then,  Mr.  Bradlaugh  and  I  are  agreed,  or  rather  it  seems  that 
Mr.  Bradlaugh  was  hardly  aware  of  the  constitutional  enactments, 
which  assert  the  power  of  Parliament.  But,  we  must  now  ask,  What 
is  Parliament  and  what  is  an  Act  of  Parliament  ?  Parliament  is  not 
the  Sovereign  only,  or  the  House  of  Lords  only,  or  the  House  of 
Commons  only,  or  the  two  Houses,  but  is  the  Sovereign  and  the  two 
Houses.  An  Act  of  Parliament  is  not  a  resolution  of  the  Commons, 
or  a  resolution  of  the  Lords,  or  an  edict  of  the  Sovereign.  It  is  not 
a  Bill  that  has  been  voted  by  the  Lords  and  the  Commons.  It  is 
a  Bill  that  has  been  voted  by  the  Commons  and  by  the  Lords,  and 
been  assented  to  by  the  Sovereign.  Mr.  Bradlaugh  says :  "  However 
absurd  any  statute  may  be,  the  English  judges  are  bound  to  enforce 
it."  Precisely ;  but  what  is  a  statute  ?  Suppose  the  Lords  and  the 
Commons  passed  a  Bill  declaring  it  treason  for  any  person  to  affirm 
orally  or  by  writing  that  the  House  of  Brunswick  ought  to  be  ousted 
from  the  succession  to  the  Throne ;  and  we  will  further  suppose  that 
Queen  Victoria,  for  the  first  time  in  her  reign,  exercised  her  right  of 
veto,  and  refused  her  assent  to  the  Bill.  If  Mr.  Bradlaugh  were 
prosecuted  according  to  the  provisions  of  the  Bill,  the  judges  would 
not  allow  the  prosecution  to  proceed,  because  a  Bill  of  the  two 
Houses  of  Parliament  is  not  a  statute,  is  not  law,  until  it  receives 
the  assent  of  the  Sovereign.  Mr.  Bradlaugh  refers  us  to  the  revolu- 
tion of  1688.  It  would  be  sufficient  forme  to  reply  that  what  is  done 
in  a  period  of  revolution  is  not  a  precedent  to  be  followed  in  a  time 
of  settled  government;  but  if  we  glance  at  the  events  of  the  last 

TJie  Republican  Impeachment.  159 

revolution  we  shall  see  that  they  emphatically  contradict  the  theory 
of  Mr.  Bradlaugh. 

James  II.  left  the  country  in  November,  1688,  and  on  the  22nd 
of  January  the  so-called  Convention  Parliament  met  Now  in 
the  1  W.  and  M.,  sec.  2,  c  2  (the  Act  founded  on  the  Bill  of  Rights), 
we  mid  that  the  Convention  Parliament  was  elected  in  compliance 
with  letters  written  by  the  Prince  of  Orange  "  To  the  Jords  spiritual 
and  temporal  being  Protestants,"  and  other  letters  ["  to  the  several 
counties,  cities,  universities,  boroughs,  and  Cinque  Ports  for  the 
choosing  of  such  persons  to  represent  them  as  were  of  right  to  be 
sent  to  Parliament  to  meet  and  sit  at  Westminster."  Neither  in  Eng- 
land nor  in  any  other  country  can  a  Parliament,  or  an  Assembly,  or 
a  Congress  summon  itself.  In  a  revolutionary  period,  when  there  is 
no  constitutional  authority  to  summon  a  Parliament,  some  person  is 
obliged  to  usurp  the  authority.  In  England  it  is  the  prerogative  of 
the  Crown  to  summon  a  Parliament,  but  on  two  occasions  this  law  was 
violated.  The  Parliament  that  restored  Charles  II.  and  the  Parlia- 
ment of  1688  were  not  summoned  by  Royal  Writ  Well,  on  the  28th 
January  the  Convention  Parliament  resolved  "  That  King  James  II., 
having  endeavoured  to  subvert  the  Constitution  of  this  kingdom  by 
breaking  the  original  contract  between  King  and  people,  and  by  the 
advice  of  Jesuits  and  other  wicked  persons  having  violated  the  funda- 
mental laws,  and  having  withdrawn  himself  out  of  the  kingdom,  has 
abdicated  the  government,  and  that  the  Throne  is  thereby  vacant" 
On  the  13th  February  William  and  Mary  were  declared  to  be  King  and 
Queen.  The  first  Act  of  the  completed  Parliament  was  one  declaring 
that  the  Lords  and  Commons  convened  at  Westminster  on  the  22nd 
of  January,  1688,  "are  the  two  Houses  of  Parliament,  and  so  shall 
be  and  are  hereby  declared,  accounted,  and  adjudged  to  be  to  all 
intents,  constructions,  and  purposes  whatsoever,  notwithstanding 
any  want  of  writ  or  writs  of  summons,  or  any  other  defect  of  form  or 
default  whatsoever,  as  if  they  had  been  summoned  according  to  the 
usual  form."  And  the  first  Act  of  the  first  duly  summoned  Parliament 
was  the  2  W.  and  M.,  for  the  avoiding  of  all  disputes  and  questions 
concerning  the  being  and  authority  of  the  late  Parliament,  which 
enacts  "  that  all  and  singular  the  Acts  made  and  enacted  in  the  said 
(Convention)  Parliament  were  and  are  laws  and  statutes  of  this 

The  change  of  1688  was  a  revolution,  but,. of  all* revolutions  on 
record^  the  most  moderate  and  conservative.  There  was  no  change 
in  the  form  of  government,  and  the  change  of  Sovereign  was  scarcely 
a  change  of  dynasty.     The  monarch  who  had  fled  was  succeeded  by 

i6o  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

members  of  his  family.  The  Convention  Parliament  was  summoned 
by  the  Prince,  who,  though  not  then  the  de  jure  King  of  England, 
was  without  doubt  the  de  facto  supreme  power  in  the  country.  Yet 
the  precedent  of  the  Restoration  Parliament  was  followed,  and  not  a 
moment  was  lost  in  doing  all  that  could  be  done  to  give  the  in- 
formally summoned  Parliament  a  constitutional  title.  The  Houses  of 
Parliament  were  then,  as  now,  honourably  jealous  of  their  rights  and 
privileges,  but  they  were  too  constitutional  and  too  law-abiding  to 
say :  "  We,  the  two  Houses  of  Parliament,  do  not  need  the  recognition 
of  the  Crown  to  assure  the  validity  of  our  Acts."  On  the  contrary, 
in  the  most  solemn  manner,  they  sought  and  obtained  that  consti- 
tutional sanction. 

But  Mr.  Bradlaugh  refers  us  to  the  Act  of  Settlement,  the  12  and 
13  William  III.  c.  2,  dated  the  12th  June,  1701 — that  is,  thirteen 
years  after  the  revolution — and  he  tells  us  "That  the  power  to  repeal 
is  as  complete  as  the  authority  to  enact"  We  turn  to  the  statute, 
and  we  read  these  words :  "  And  the  same  are  by  His  Majesty, 
by  and  with  the  advice  and  consent  of  the  said  Lords  spiritual 
and  temporal,  and  Commons,  and  by  authority  of  the  same,  ratified 
and  confirmed  accordingly."  That  is  to  say,  the  Act  of  Settlement  is 
not  an  Act  of  the  two  Houses  only,  but  of  the  Crown  also.  If,  there- 
fore, we  admit  that  the  power  to  repeal  is  as  complete  as  the  authority 
to  enact,  it  surely  follows  that  an  enactment  of  the  Crown  and  the 
Houses  of  Parliament  cannot  be  repealed  except  by  the  authority  of 
the  Crown  as  well  as  of  the  two  Houses  of  Parliament 

So  much  for  Mr.  Bradlaugh's  assertion  that  in  a  period  of  settled 
Government  the  two  Houses  of  Parliament  can,  without  the  assent  of 
the  Crown,  repeal  the  Act  of  Settlement,  which  was  not  the  Act  of  a 
Convention  Parliament,  but  of  a  Parliament  of  King,  Lords,  and 
Commons.  Before  leaving  this  subject,  I  will  say  a  word  about  Mr. 
Bradlaugh's  reference  to  the  United  States.  He  writes :  "  In  America 
there  is  a  written  Constitution,  and  an  Act  of  Congress  may  not  only  be 
unconstitutional,  but  the  judges  may  disregard  it  as  unconstitutional" 
The  Supreme  Court  not  only  may,  but  is  bound  to  disregard  an  un- 
constitutional Act  of  Congress.  The  Fathers  of  the  Republic  would 
not  confer  on  the  Executive,  or  on  Congress,  or  on  the  Supreme 
Court,  authority  to  amend  or  alter  the  Constitution.  That  power  is 
reserved  to  the  people.  Mr.  Bradlaugh  will  discover,  by  even  a 
cursory  study  of  the  English  Constitution,  that  no  power  is  conferred 
upon  the  two  Houses  of  Parliament  to  amend  or  alter  the  Constitution 
any  more  than  such  a  power  is  vested  in  the  Congress  of  the  United 

The  Republican*  Impeachment.  1 6 1 

Let  us  now  notice  Mr.  Bradlaugh's  statement  that  "  the  Parliament 
has  full  and  uncontrollable  authority  to  make  any  enactment  and  to 
repeal  any  enactment  heretofore  made." 

Be  it  observed  that  Mr.  Bradlaugh  does  not  mean  the  mere  potential 
power  of  Parliament,  but  the  constitutional  competence  of  Parlia- 
ment. What  I  understand  by  constitutional  competency  is  the 
power  to  do  anything  that  is  not  in  violation  of  the  Constitution ;  for  a 
constitutional  Parliament  is  not  a  constituent  assembly,  but  the 
creature,  servant,  and  protector  of  the  Constitution.  Is  Parliament 
constitutionally  competent  to  make  or  repeal  any  enactment  ?  In 
his  pamphlet  Mr.  Bradlaugh  writes : — "  The  object  of  the  present 
essay  is  to  submit  reasons  for  the  repeal  of  the  Act  of  Settlement,  so 
far  as  the  succession  to  the  Throne  is  concerned.^  Why  is  a  part  only  of 
the  Act  to  be  repealed  ?  The  Act  of  Settlement  contains  the  follow- 
ing clause : — "  That  after  the  said  limitation  shall  take  effect  as  afore- 
said, judges'  commissions  be  made  quam  diu  se  bene  gesserint,  and 
their  salaries  ascertained  and  established,  but  upon  the  address  of 
both  Houses  of  Parliament  it  may  be  lawful  to  remove  them."  Is 
Parliament  competent  to  repeal  this  clause,  which  is  the  guarantee  of 
the  independence  of  the  judges  ?  Or  has  Parliament  the  constitutional 
authority  to  enact  that  it  shall  not  be  dissolved  at  the  pleasure  of  the 
Crown,  and  shall  not  be  dissolved  at  the  end  of  seven  years  by  the 
effluxion  of  time,  but  shall  be  a  permanent  assembly,  filling  up 
vacancies  as  it  chooses,  without  regard  to  the  law  or  to  the  will  of 
the  people?  If  a  Parliament  so  acted  would  it  not  be  the  duty 
of  a  constitutional  Sovereign  to  call  upon  the  people  to  refuse 
obedience  to  the  unconstitutional  decree,  and  to  defend  their  rights 
and  liberty  ?  The  assertion  of  Mr.  Bradlaugh  is  nonsensical.  Par- 
liament as  well  as  the  Sovereign  is  a  creation  of  the  law,  and  can  only 
act  lawfully  when  it  respects  the  Constitution  of  the  country.  Mr. 
Bradlaugh  says  :  "  In  Great  Britain  there  is  no  written  Constitution." 
This  is  not  true.  Portions  of  our  Constitution  are  non  scripta,  but 
other  parts  of  our  Constitution — such  as  Magna  Charta,  the  Bill  of 
Rights,  the  Act  of  Settlement,  and  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act — are 
written.  But  whether  written  or  unwritten  the  Constitution  is  of  equal 

To  discuss  the  potentiality  of  the  Sovereign  or  of  the  two  Houses 
of  Parliament  or  of  Mr.  Bradlaugh  would  be  profitless.  The 
Sovereign  might,  with  the  support  of  an  army  or  the  people,  tear  the 
Constitution  in  shreds  and  found  a  despotic  Government  The 
two  Houses  of  Parliament  might,  with  the  assent  of  the  nation, 
abolish  the  monarchy  and  set  up  4a  republic.      If  Her  Majesty's 

1 62  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

subjects  transferred  their  allegiance  to  Mr.  Bradlaugh,  he  might 
make  himself  dictator  or  emperor.  But  any  such  change  would  be 
a  revolution.  Any  act  in  violation  of  the  Constitution  is  an  uncon- 
stitutional act.  The  constitutional  competence  of  the  two  Houses 
of  Parliament  is  limited  by  the  Constitution.  A  revolution  may  be 
just  and  expedient,  but  in  spite  of  its  justice  and  expediency  a  revo- 
lution is  a  revolution,  and  not  a  constitutional  reform. 

Mr.  Bradlaugh's  assertion  as  to  the  unlimited  power  of  Parliament 
is  scandalously  immoral.  It  is  true  that  the  Constitution  does  not 
expressly  limit  the  authority  of  Parliament,  and,  seeing  that  Parlia- 
ment speaks  and  enacts  as  the  representative  of  all  the  orders  of 
the  community :  that  Parliament  consists  of  Sovereign,  Lords,  and 
People,  and  no  wish  of  one  part  of  Parliament  is  of  any  force 
unless  it  is  agreed  to  by  the  other  part,  it  is  impossible  to  limit 
the  authority  of  Parliament,  just  as  it  is  impossible  to  limit  by  edict 
the  authority  of  the  many  if  the  many  choose  to  put  it  forth.  But  it 
is  quite  another  affair  to  plead  this  necessarily  unlimited  authority  as 
a  reason  for  repealing  an  Act.  "  Might  makes  right"  is  the  ethics  of 
the  tyrant — of  the  savage  tyrant.  "  I  wear  trje  sword  and  therefore  I 
slaughter  those  I  hate  "  is  the  only  answer  that  a  King  Theodore 
gives  when  he  is  denounced  for  shedding  innocent  blood  to  gratify 
his  momentary  spite  or  his  passing  whim.  Now,  in  the  mere  potential 
sense,  the  authority  of  the  British  Parliament  is  as  unlimited  as  the 
authority  of  a  barbaric  despot ;  but  Parliament  is  bound  in  honour 
to  respect  the  Constitution,  to  do  justice  to  all  men,  and  to  be  true 
and  honest  in  its  acts;  But  observe  that  when  Mr.  Bradlaugh  speaks 
about  Parliament,  he  does  not  mean  the  whole  Parliament,  he  does 
not  mean  Sovereign,  Lords,  and  Commons,  but  only  a  part  of  Parlia- 
ment. His  words  are:  "The  right  to  deal  with  the  Throne  is 
inalienably  vested  in  the  English  people,  to  be  exercised  by  them 
through  their  representatives  in  Parliament;"  and  in  the  same 
paragraph  he  says:  "The  Parliament  has  full  and  incontestable 
authority  to  make  any  enactment  and  to  repeal  any  enactment  here- 
tofore made."  The  vocabulary  of  invective  and  vituperation  has 
been  ransacked  and  exhausted  to  find  opprobrious  epithets  for  kings 
who  break  the  constitutional  compact  and  trample  on  the  rights  of 
the  people.  Let  the  king  who  abuses  .his  high  trust  be  accursed, 
for  there  is  no  worse  political  crime.  But  there  is  a  political  crime  that 
calls  as  loudly  for  execration.  It  is  when  a  people,  beguiled  by  the 
false  teaching  of  demagogues,  violate  the  constitutional  compact,  and 
trample  on  the  constitutional  rights  of  the  Sovereign.  Mr.  Bradlaugh 
says  : "  I  can  affirm  that  I  never  flatter  the  masses  I  address."  This  is  a 

The  Republican  Impeachment.  163 

sounding  and  oft-repeated  stump  phrase.  What  Mr.  Bradlaugh  may 
say  to  the  masses  I  know  not,  but  in  his  pamphlet  he  flatters  the 
people  after  the  commonplace  demagogue  style  by  telling  them  that 
they  are  supreme,  and  that  they  have  a  right  to  violate  the  constitu- 
tional compact  For  nearly  a  century  the  French  demagogues  have 
been  repeating  the  same  abominable  flattery,  and  they  have  been 
believed.  What  is  the  result  ?  After  so  many  revolutions,  anarchy 
and  not  order  reigns  in  France ;  instead  of  a  settled  Government, 
she  has  a  Provisional  Government ;  and  instead  of  political  liberty 
there  is  the  tyranny  of  factions,  the  most  oppressive  of  all  tyrannies. 
The  voice  of  the  people  is  the  voice  of  authority,  but  its  edicts  are 
neither  blessed  nor  a  blessing  unless  they  are  inspired  by  a  love  of 
justice.  God  forbid  that  the  devilish  dogma,  "  Might  makes  right," 
should  ever  be  an  article  of  our  political  creed.  God  forbid  that  the 
English  people  should  ever  forget  that  freedom  cannot  be  divorced 
from  justice.  Happily  there  is  no  sign  of  the  free  mother  of  free 
nations  being  false  to  those  sacred  principles  which  have  been  her 
sure  guide  in  the  days  of  trial,  which  have  made  her  great  and 
glorious,  and  her  fair  land  the  home  and  the  shrine  of  liberty. 

But  Mr.  Bradlaugh  puts  forth  reasons  for  what  he  ignorantly,  or 
impertinently  presuming  on  the  ignorance  of  his  hearers,  calls  a 
constitutional  act,  but  which  would  be  a  revolution.  The  pleas  for 
repealing  «the  Act  of  Settlement  and  cutting  off"  the  succession  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales  to  the  Throne  are  false  in  fact,  bad  in  law,  and  gro- 
tesquely irrelevant.  Mr.  Bradlaugh  asserts  that  the  Princes  of  the 
House  of  Brunswick  have  been  bad  men,  and  that  all  the  ills  of 
England  since  the  revolution  of  1688  have  been  the  fault  of  the 
Brunswick  Sovereigns.  Ergo,  says  Mr.  Bradlaugh,  let  us  prevent 
the  accession  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  on  the  demise  of  the  reigning 
Sovereign.  Why  Queen  Victoria  is  to  occupy  the  Throne  until  she 
chooses  to  present  her  sceptre  to  Mr.  Charles  Bradlaugh,  or  dies,  is 
not  explained. 

With  regard  to  personal  character  I  submit  that  the  private  vices 
of  a  king  do  not  justify  a  political  revolution.  Charles  I.  was  a 
good  husband  and  a  good  father,  but  a  bad  king,  and  deserved  to 
lose  his  crown.  James  II.  was  not  a  personally  vicious  man,  yet  the 
revolution  of  1688  was  justifiable  because  he  was  a  bad  king.  There 
is  no  nobler  lady  living  than  Queen  Victoria.  Her  conduct  as  a 
daughter,  as  a  wife,  and  as  a  mother  endears  her  to  nations  that  owe 
her  no  allegiance.  Not  only  is  Victoria  a  good  woman,  but  also  a  good 
queen,  for  she  is  ever  mindful  of  her  duty  to  the  State,  and  respects 
the  rights  of  her  subjects.    But  if  our  beloved  Queen  were  a  bad 

1 64  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Sovereign,  her  womanly  virtues  would  not  be  a  reason  for  permitting 
her  to  violate  the  Constitution  and  to  infringe  our  political  rights. 
Constitutional  loyalty  to  the  Throne  is  not  inspired  by  the  character 
of  the  occupant.  In  countries  where  the  ruler  is  a  despot,  personal 
attachment  is  all  important,  but  where  the  ruler  is  a  constitutional 
monarch  the  stability  of  the  Throne  does  not  depend  upon  the  private 
character  of  the  wearer  of  the  crown.  It  is  of  great  moment  that  the 
fierce  light  which,  as  the  poet  says,  beats  about  the  Throne  should 
show  to  the  nation  an  example  of  exalted  virtue ;  but  that  is  beside 
the  political  question.  So  if  Mr.  Bradlaugh  had  proved  that  the 
Princes  of  the  House  of  Brunswick  must  needs  be  libertines,  it  would 
by  no  means  follow  that  we  ought  to  oust  the  present  reigning 

Mr.  Bradlaugh  strings  together  the  evil  stories  which  have  been 
told  about  the  Georges,  which  he  says  he  believes  to  be  true.     His 
credulity  is  marvellous  if  he  assumes  that  the  Georges  altogether 
escaped  calumny.     In  my  article  on  the  pamphlet  I  said  that  if  all 
the  stories  about  the  Georges  are  true,  if  they  were  the  vilest  of  men, 
and  if  bad  private  character  were  a  reason  for  a  change  of  dynasty, 
still  it  would  not  be  fair  to  visit  the  sins  of  his  ancestors  upon  Albert 
Edward  Prince  of  Wales,  and  by  way  of  illustration  I  wrote :  "Suppose 
that  Mr.  Bradlaugh's  ancestors  had  been  very  abominable  persons, 
that  would  be  no  reason  for  punishing  Mr.  Bradlaugh,  or  fop  declaring 
him  incompetent  to  hold  a  public  office."     This  put  Mr.  Bradlaugh 
hors  de  combat,  and,  writhing  on  the  ground,  he  blurts  out  a  confes- 
sion of  the  unsoundness  of  his  views,  and  very  curtly  repudiates  the 
leading  argument  of  his  pamphlet     He  thus  writes:  "But  it  is 
asked,  Ought  the  fact  that  George  IV.  was  'a  very  bad  man'  to  be 
urged  as  a  ground  for  hindering  the  succession  of  Albert  Edward  to  the 
Throne?  Certainly  not !"  Certainly  not !    Then  why  does' Mr.  Brad- 
laugh devote  the  greater  part  of  his  pamphlet  to  the  recital  of  the 
vicious  stories  told  of  the  Georges  ?    If  they  haye  nothing  to  do 
with  the  question,  why  are  they  repeated  ?     Was  it  to  make  the 
pamphlet  acceptable  to  the  debased  wretches  who  revel  in  stories  of 
profligacy?    I  will  charitably  assume  that  Mr.  Bradlaugh  thought 
they  were   relevant  to  the  issue  until  I  gave  the  coup  de  grdcc. 
Mr.  Bradlaugh  then  proceeds :  "  But  the  fact  that  the  four  Georges 
were  all  very  bad  kings,  and  that  William  IV.  was  not  a  good 
one,  ought  not  to  be  a  ground  for   electing  Albert*  Edward  to 
the  throne. *'    This  is  tilting  at  a  bogus  windmill  in  pantomimic 
fashion.     I  do  not  say  that  the  Prince  of  Wales  should  be  elected 
to  the  Throne  because  his  royal  ancestors  were  bad.    No  one 

The  Republican  Impeachment.  t  65 

says  so,  and  Mr.  Bradlaugh  himself  tells  us  that  the  Prince  of 
Wales  is  heir  apparent  to  the  Throne  by  virtue  of  the  Act  of  Settle- 
ment Then  comes  the  most  remarkable  sentence  that  ever  was 
penned  by  a  bewildered  republican.  Thus  writes  the  advocate  of 
an  English  republic  :  "  Let  him  (the  Prince  of  Wales)  be  elected  or 
rejected  on  his  own  merits  and  qualifications  for  the  kingly  office." 
So  Mr.  Bradlaugh  approves  of  "  an  elective  monarchy-republic " ! 
Is  the  Crown  to  be  submitted  to  competitive  examination  ?  May  Mr. 
Bradlaugh  as  well  as  Albert  Edward  be  a  candidate  for  the  high  office  ? 
Or  is  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  be  tried  by  judge  and  jury?  Mr.  Brad- 
laugh has  queer  ideas  of  law  and  justice.  Parliament  is  forthwith  to 
enact  that,  "  The  Throne  shall  be  no  longer  filled  by  a  member  of  the 
House  of  Brunswick,"  but  on  the  demise  of  the  ,Crown  Albert 
Edward  is  to  be  elected  or  rejected  on  his  merits.  His  Royal 
Highness  is  to  be  first  executed  and  afterwards  tried.  If  Mr. 
Bradlaugh  could  be  as  successful  in  assailing  the  Throne  as  he  is  in 
demolishing  his  own  arguments  the  Prince  of  Wales  would  never  be 
King  of  England. 

I  do  not  propose  to  follow  Mr.  Bradlaugh  in  his  charges  against 
the  government  of  the  Georges,  because  whether  they  are  true  or  false 
they  have  no  more  to  do  with  the  question  raised  by  Mr.  Bradlaugh 
than  they  have  with  a  mathematical  problem.  Let  us  admit  that 
"  one  early  act  of  George  I.  was  to  purchase  for  the  sum  of  ^250,000 
Bremen  and  Verdun."  Let  us  admit  "that  George  II.  repeatedly 
signed  treaties  pledging  England  to  the  payment  of  enormous  sub- 
sidies." Let  us  admit  that  George  III.  was  responsible  for  the  loss  of 
the  American  colonies.  It  would  be  easy  enough  to  show  that  since 
the  revolution  of  1688  the  monarchs  of  England  have  not  ruled 
without  the  consent  of  Parliament,  and  that  therefore  some  part  of 
the  nation  at  least  was  conjointly  responsible  for  the  policy  of 
the  King's  Government  But  we  will  let  that  pass.  We  will,  for 
argument's  sake,  agree  with  Mr.  Bradlaugh,  that  for  all  that  has  been 
done  amiss,  for  all  the  national  ills  we  have  suffered,  our  kings  are 
solely  responsible.  Our  wars  were  their  wars,  and  against  our  will 
and  welfare.  The  Great  Rebellion  was  in  vain ;  and,  though  ship- 
money  was  abolished,  the  House  of  Brunswick  has,  against  our  will, 
burdened  us  with  a  debt  of  ^800,000,000.  The  Brunswick  monarchs 
have  filled  the  butchers'  shops  with  great  blow-flies,  and  diseased 
the  potatoes.  What  then  ?  This  is  a  world  of  weal  and  woe.  If  all 
the  woe  is  to  be  charged  against  our  monarchs,  we  must  perforce  give 
them  credit  for  all  our  weal.    If  the  King  is  held  responsible  for 

the  blight,  he  may  justly  claim  our  gratitude  when  the  harvest  is 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  n 

1 66  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

plenteous.  Now  what,  I  ask,  is  the  condition  of  our  Empire  ?  It  is  a 
condition  of  unsurpassed  greatness,  glory,  and  prosperity*  The 
sceptre  of  England  is  acknowledged  in  the  five  quarters  of  the  globe. 
The  standard  of  England  is  planted  in  Africa.  We  govern  the  West 
Indies.  The  grim  rock  of  Gibraltar  is  the  stately  monument  of  our 
naval  supremacy  in  Europe.  We  have  ports  in  China.  The  vast 
Dominion  of  Canada  is  affiliated  to  the  British  Crown.  The 
Australias,  the  last  discovered  world,  the  countries  of  unspeakable 
riches,  are  our  colonies.  The  Queen  of  England  is  also  Empress  of 
India.  Our  language  is  the  language  of  America  and  Australia.  It 
is  in  Africa  the  language  of  freedom  to  the  negro,  and  in  India  the 
language  of  command.  Our  ships  crowd  the  pathways  of  the  ocean, 
and  are  seen  in  every  port  Our  commerce  is  the  wonder  of  the  age. 
Our  wealth  is  beyond  calculation.  In  science  and  in  literature  we 
hold  the  foremost  rank.  We  rejoice  in  the  political  liberty  the 
lovers  of  freedom  in  other  ages  and  in  other  countries  have  vainly 
sighed  for,  fought  for,  and  died  for.  I  say  that  it  is  under  the 
monarchy  of  the  House  of  Brunswick  that  we  have  attained  to  this 
supreme  dominion,  wealth,  and  honour.  I  do  not  say  this  unprece- 
dented prosperity  and  this  exceeding  weight  of  national  glory  are  due 
to  the  wisdom  and  conduct  of  our  kings.  I  hold  that  the  monarchs 
.)f  the  reigning  house  have  effectively  done  the  work  they  had  to  do— 
for,  by  their  occasional  resistance  to  the  popular  demands,  they  have 
prevented  reform  being  hurried  into  revolution ;  and  our  Queen  is  an 
example  to  all  constitutional  monarchs.  But  it  is  to  the  blessing 
of  God,  and  to  the  wisdom  and  conduct  of  the  nation — and 
"the  Nation"  means  the  Lords  as  well  as  the  people,  and  the 
Sovereign  as  well  as  the  Lords  and  people — that  we  must  ascribe 
the  national  might  and  majesty  that  the  most  ardent  and  sanguine 
patriot  could  not  have  dreamed  of  in  1688.  But  I  say  that  if  we  ate 
so  foolish  as  to  charge  the  monarchy  with  our  failings,  it  must  also  be 
credited  with'  our  triumphs.  I  say,  as  I  have  before  said,  that  if  the 
House  of  Brunswick  is  to  be  judged  by  the  condition  of  the  Empire, 
and  if  we  compare  it  with  what  it  was  when  the  Act  of  Settlement 
gave  the  Throne  to  the  Protestant  granddaughter  of  James  I.,  and  her 
heirs,  then,  so  far  from  denouncing  the  Act  of  Settlement,  we  find  only 
reasons  for  gladness  that  the  Princes  of  Brunswick  have  been  our  kings. 
Mr.  Bradlaugh  concludes  his  reply  to  my  criticism  with  a  para- 
graph in  which  he  virtually  brands  himself  with  monstrous  and 
graceless  folly.     He  writes  : — 

I  am  only  a  plain,  poor-born  man,  with  the  odium  of  heresy  resting  on  me  and 
the  weight  of  an  unequal  struggle  in  life  burdening  me  as  I  move  on.    That  I 

The  Republican  Impeachment  167 


have  ambition  to  rise  in  the  political  strife  around  me,  until  I  play  some  small  part 
in  the  legislative  assembly  of  my  country,  is  true.    If  I  live,  I  will. . 

So  this  person,  who  tells  us  that  he  is  a  plain  (by  which,  I  suppose, 
he  means  uncultured),  poor-born  man  (an  un-English  reflection  on  his 
parentage),  with  the  odium  of  heresy  resting  on  him  (a  fact  that  it  is 
shameful  for  him  to  parade  in  a  political  discussion),  and  having  an 
unequal  struggle  in  life  burdening  him  (which,  I  presume,  signifies  that 
Mr.  Bradlaugh  bemoans  not  being  born  to  riches,  and  having  to  earn 
his  daily  bread),  this  person  is  resolved  that  if  he  lives  he  will  get 
into  Parliament !  And  if  any  constituency  elects  Mr.  Bradlaugh  he 
will  be  received  at  Westminster.  Not  lack  of  culture,  nor  humble 
birth,  nor  poverty,  nor  heresy  will  prevent  him  from  sitting  in  the 
British  Parliament  In  no  Republic,  past  or  existing,  is  completer 
freedom  to  be  found,  and  no  Republic  that  may  be  devised  can 
confer  upon  its  citizens  greater  liberty  than  Mr.  Bradlaugh  confesses 
he  enjoys  as  a  British  subject  Yet  he  vilifies  a  Constitution,  and 
seeks  to  overthrow  a  settled  order  of  government,  that  enables  him 
— a  plain,  poor-born  man,  with  the  odium  of  heresy  resting  on  him, 
and  the  weight  of  an  unequal  struggle  in  life  burdening  him — to 
declare  that  he  will,  if  he  lives,  sit  in  the  Parliament  of  the  greatest 
empire  of  the  world.  Hereafter,  when  Mr.  Bradlaugh  assails  the 
monarchy,  he  should  use  only  abuse  and  carefully  eschew  arguments 
of  which  the  premisses  are  false,  the  conclusions  illogical,  and  by 
which  he  is  self-convicted  of  senseless  ingratitude. 

John  Baker  Hopkins. 

n  2 

A  Garden  in  Surrey.* 

F  any  of  our  classical  readers  should  chance  to  have  enter- 
tained hitherto  even  the  shadow  of  a  shade  of  doubt  as  to 
the  real  existence  of  Virgil's  "  Corycius  Senex  "  in  the  flesh, 
let  him  henceforth  own  that  that  shade  is  dispelled,  for  that  at 
Wallington,  in  the  parish  of  Beddington,  near  Croydon,  less  than 
fifteen  miles  from  London,  resides  the  venerable  sage  whom  Virgil 
has  immortalised  under  that  name,  and  he  has  lately  written  a  book, 
which,  if  it  were  only  in  poetry  instead  of  prose,  would  easily  pass 
muster  as  a  fifth  Georgic,  on  Horticulture. 

But  Mr.  Smee  is  not  a  poet ;  he  is  a  practical  man ;  he  is  well 
known  in  the  City  of  London  as  chief  medical  officer  of  the  Bank  of 
England,  and  as  the  busiest  of  busy  men  in  other  matters  of  a  com- 
mercial, as  well  as  of  a  scientific  nature.  He  has  found  time,  however, 
— at  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  day,  we  presume — to  bring  into 
successful  cultivation  a  small  estate  of  which  he  is  the  owner,  and 
which,  as  he  tells  us  in  his  preface,  he  regards  in  a  twofold  light ; 
firstly,  as  "  an  experimental  garden,  designed  to  obtain  information," 
and  secondly,  as  "  a  practical  garden,  from  which  his  residence  in 
town  is  supplied  with  vegetables,  fruit,  and  flowers."  The  book 
which  he  has  lately  published  under  the  title  of  "  My  Garden,"  will 
serve  to  justify  this  twofold  "  end  and  aim." 

It  appears  from  a  perusal  of  the  second  chapter  of  the  work  before 
us  that  when  he  entered  upon  his  land  at  Beddington,  what  now  is 
Mr.  Smee's  garden  was  a  peaty  bog,  across  which  he  could  not  walk. 
However,  he  at  once  set  to  work  to  remove  the  cause  of  offence  by 
taking  in  hand  and  fairly  mastering  the  river  which  ran  through  it, 
and  which  he  regarded  as  an  enemy  that  could  be  turned  into  a 

friend ; 

Multa*  mole  docendus  aprico  parcere  prato. 

He  "  lowered  the  central  brook,  made  a  second  stream  parallel 
with  the  river,  and  another  crossing  the  garden  at  right  angles  f 
nor  was  he  victorious  on  the  waves  alone :  he  conquered  also  the  peat 
and  the  sand  ;  studied  the  nature  of  the  chalk  soil  of  the  district  im- 
mediately adjoining  his  property ;  introduced  a  system  of  drainage 

*  My  Garden :  its  Plan  and  Culture.    By  Alfred  Smee,  F.R.S.     (London : 

Bell  and  Daldy.     1872.) 

A  Garden  in  Surrey.  169 

suitable  to  the  locality  and  the  purpose  in  hand ;  and,  by  a  judicious 
management  of  soils  and  manures,  and  by  other  scientific  applica- 
tions, he  "made  the  desert  smile." 

It  does  not  fall  within  the  scope  of  the  present  paper  to  give  a  detailed 
account  of  the  way  in  which,  step  by  step,  Mr.  Smee  overcame  the 
difficulties  which  nature  placed  in  his  way,  and  did  for  his  garden  on 
the  banks  of  the  Wandle — the  "  blue  transparent  Vandalis  "  of  Pope 
— what  the  monks  of  old  did  for  the  once  barren  lands  which  by 
their  labour  and  skill  blossomed  into  the  fair  demesnes  of  Glastonbury, 
Beaulieu,  and  Tin  tern.     But  the  work  of  Mr.  Smee  is  one  which  has, 


and  must  ever  have,  a  special  interest  for  Svlvanus  Urban  and 
his  numerous  readers,  as  embodying,  inter  alia,  an  admirably  written 
account  of  the  topography  of  Carshalton,  Beddington,  and  the 

Flint  instruments  have  been  found,  scattered  over  the  district,  in 
sufficient  quantities  to  show  that  the  neighbourhood  was  inhabited 
at  a  very  early  period.  Equally  distinct  is  the  proof  of  Roman 
occupancy ;  and  the  discovery  of  a  Roman  house  in  situ,  just  at  the 
east  of  Beddington  Park,  with  the  ground  plan  of  its  chambers  still 
clearly  distinguishable,  could  leave  no  room  for  doubt  on  the  subject. 
Near  this  building  were  found  specimens  of  Roman  pottery  and  coins 
of  the  reigns  of  Commodus  and  Constantino,  one  at  least  of  which 
was  struck  at  Colchester.  It  is  well  known,  we  may  add,  that  the 
Roman  road  known  as  Stane  Street  must  have  run  through  or  near 
Beddington,  on  its  way  from  the  South  Coast  to  London,  though  no 
actual  traces  of  it  remain  at  the  present  day ;  and  some  antiquaries 
hare  not  hesitated  to  place  near  the  same  locality  the  Roman  town 
Noviomagus — the  site  of  which  has  been  so  long  and  so  keenly 


Tlie  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

disputed  among  antiquaries.  Passing  on  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  period, 
coins,  arms,  and  other  implements  of  that  age  appear  to  have  been 
found  in  sufficient  quantities  to  justify  the  inference  that  Beddington 
was  not  an  unimportant  place  from  the  seventh  to  the  tenth  century, 
as  Mr.  Smee  states  that  several  skeletons  were  found  along  with  the 


above,  and  that  they  lay  "  with  their  heads  towards  the  west."  Since 
this  was  the  case,  the  inference  is  obvious  that  they  were  Christians 
who  were  buried  there.  With  them  were  found  a  Saxon  silver  penny 
bearing  the  name  of  GSdelstan  (Ethebtan),  and  also  a  bronze  bracelet, 
both  of  which  we  are  able  to  reproduce  here  by  the  kind  permission 
of  Mr.  Smee. 

SAXON  silykb  mnrr. 

The  history  of  Beddington,  from  the  middle  ages  down  to  the 
recent  extinction  of  the  Carews,  who  were  long  its  owners,  as  re- 
corded by  Mr.  Smee,  is  so  full  of  interest  that  we  have  ventured  to 
draw  largely  upon  his  pages  for  the  brief  summary  of  its  annals 
which  we  here  lay  before  our  readers. 

It  appears  that  in  Doomsday  Book  Beddington  comprised  two 
manors,  one  of  which  was  held  by  Robert  de  Watville  from  Richard 
de  Tonbridge,  and  by  his  successors  immediately  from  the  King,  by 
the  service  of  rendering  to  the  Sovereign  every  year  a  single  wooden 
crossbow.     At  this  time  there  were  in  Beddington  two  mills  and  a 

A  Garden  in  Surrey. 


parish  church ;  but  the  manor,  in  the  reign  of  Richard  L,  had  passed 
into  the  hands  of  a  family  named  De  Es  or  De  Eys.  In  a.d.  1205, 
on  the  extinction  of  this  family,  the  manor  reverted  to  the  King.  It 
would  be  tedious  and  useless  to  mention  the  names  of  the  families  to 


whom  from  time  to  time  the  manor  was  granted  prior  to  the  reign  of 
Edward  III-,  when  it  passed,  by  an  arrangement,  from  the  Willough- 
bies  to  the  De  Camies,  or,  as  they  afterwards  styled  themselves, 
Carews.     This  knightly  and  noble  family — if  we  may  believe  the 

1 72  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

heralds  and  genealogists— were  descended  from  one  Otho,  who  came 
over  with  the  Conqueror,  and  obtained  a  grant  of  Carew  Castle,  in 
Pembrokeshire,  and  they  bore  for  their  arms,  "  Or,  three  lions  passant 
in  pale  sable."  TheCarews  can  boast  that  they  produced  some  distin- 
guished sons,  among  whom  was  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  the  celebrated 
historian.  Sir  Nicholas  Carew,  the  first  actual  owner  of  Beddington 
who  bore  that  name,  was  a  man  of  note  in  the  reign  of  the  third 
Edward,  under  whom  he  served  as  a  Knight  of  the  Shire  and  Keeper 
of  the  Privy  Seal,  and  of  whose  will  he  became  executor.  The  manor 
of  Beddington  remained  vested  in  the  hands  of  the  Carews  till  the 
reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  when  its  holder,  another  Sir  Nicholas,  the 
"  Lieutenant  of  Calais,  Master  of  the  Horse,  and  a  Knight  of  the 
Garter,"  having  incurred  the  displeasure  of  that  arbitrary  monarch, 
was  attainted  and  executed  on  Tower  Hill,  his  broad  lands  being 
seized  by  the  King,  who  took  up  his  residence  at  Beddington,  and 

held  a  Council  there.  He  even  went  a  step  further,  and  granted 
the  manor  to  the  proud  D'Arcyes  of  Chiche,  to  whom  Sir  Francis 
Carew  was  glad  to  pay  a  round  sum  of  money,  in  order  "  to  make 
assurance  doubly  sure,"  upon  obtaining  restitution  of  Beddington  from - 
Queen  Mary,  in  whose  service  he  had  risen  to  favour  and  influence. 
It  was  this  Sir  Francis  who  rebuilt  the  mansion  of  Beddington  Park, 
the  great  hall  of  which  now  alone  remains  standing,  according  to  Mr. 
Smee,  who  adds  that  the  great  door  of  its  hall  has  a  curious  and 
ancient  lock,  very  richly  wrought,  the  key-hole  of  which  is  concealed 
by  a  shield  bearing  the  arms  of  England  in  the  Tudor  times.  Queen 
Elizabeth  honoured  Sir  Francis  with  her  presence  at  Beddington  in 
August,  1599,  when  she  spent  three  days  at  his  mansion  and  held 
her  Court ;  and  again  in  the  August  of  the  following  year. 

The  following  quaint  account,  which  Mr.  Smee  quotes  from  Sir 
Hugh  Piatt's  "  Garden  of  Eden,"  is  strictly  in  keeping  with  the  plan 
of  his  book,  and  it  serves,  moreover,  to  show  what  pains  were  taken 
to  keep  back  cherries,  the  favourite  fruit  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  for  the 
table  of  that  Queen : — 

Here  I  wall  conclude  with  a  conceit  of  that  delicate  knight,  Sir  FrancU  Carew, 

A  Garden  in  Surrey. 

J  73 

who,  for  the  better  accomplishment  of  his  royal  entertainment  of  our  late  Qaeen 
of  happy  memory  at  his  house  at  Beddington,  led  Her  Majesty  to  a  cherry-tree, 
whose  fruit  he  had  of  pfcrpose  kept  back  from  ripening  at  the  least  one  month  after 
all  other  cherries  had  taken  their  farewell  of  England.  This  secret  he  performed 
by  straining  a  tent  or  cover  of  canvas  over  the  whole  tree,  and  wetting  the  same 

now  and  then  with  a  scoop  or  horn,  as  the  heat  of  the  weather  required ;  and  so, 
by  withholding  the  sun-beams  from  reflecting  upon  the  berries,  they  both  grew 
great,  and  were  very  long  before  they  had  gotten  their  cherry  colour  ;  and,  when 
he  was  assured  of  Her  Majesty's  coming,  he  removed  the  tent,  when  a  few  sunny 
days  brought  them  to  their  full  maturity. 

1 74  The  Getttlemaris  Magazine. 

It  is  almost  needless  to  add  that  this  Sir  Francis  appears  to  have 
been  not  only  a  clever  and  cunning  courtier,  but  also  an  excellent 
horticulturist,  and  to  have  forestalled  at  Beddington  much  of  the 
work  which  Mr.  Smee  has  carried  out  two  centuries  later  in  his 
garden  atWallington;  and  it  is  interesting  to  be  reminded  by  our 
author  that  it  was  he  to  whom  we  owe  the  first  introduction  into  this 
country  and  cultivation  of  orange-trees,  which  are  supposed  to  have 
been  brought  to  England  at  his  suggestion  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
who  was  married  to  the  niece  of  the  Beddington  squire.  If  this  be 
really  so,  we  ought  all  to  feel  very  grateful  to  Sir  Francis  Carew,  and 
none  of  us  more  so  than  the  orange  merchants  of  Covent-garden, 
large  and  small. 

To  show  that  Mr.  Smee  is  not  speaking  at  random  when  he 
praises  the  horticultural  skill  of  Sir  Francis  Carew,  let  us  here  put  on 


record  the  following  account  of  the  orangery  at  Beddington,  taken 
by  him  from  the  twelfth  volume  of  his  "Archaeologia." 

Beddington  Gardens,  at  present  (1796)  in  the  hands  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk, 
but  belonging  to  the  family  of  Carew,  has  in  it  the  best  orangery  in 
England,  The  orange  and  lemon-trees  there  grow  in  the  ground,  and  hare  done 
so  for  nearly  a  hundred  years,  as  the  gardener,  an  aged  man,  said  that  he 
believed.  There  are  a  great  number  of  them,  the  house  wherein  they  are  being 
above  two  hundred  feet  long ;  they  are  most  of  them  thirteen  feet  high,  and  very 
full  of  fruit,  the  gardener  not  having  taken  off  them  so  many  flowers  this  year 
{1796)  as  usually  do  others.  He  said  that  he  gathered  off  them  at  least  ten 
thousand  oranges  this  last  year.  The  heir  of  the  family  being  now  but  about  £tc 
years  of  age,  the  trustees  take  care  of  the  orangery,  and  this  year  they  built  a  new 
house  over  them.  There  are  some  myrtles  growing  among  them,  but  they  look 
not  well  for  want  of  trimming.  The  rest  of  the  garden  is  all  out  of  order,  the 
orangery  being  the  gardener's  chief  care,  but  it  is  capable  of  being  made  one  of 
the  best  gardens  in  England,  the  soil  being  very  agreeable,  and  a  clear  silver 
stream  running  through  it. 

Mr.  Smee,  we  think,  might  fairly  claim  even  greater  credit  for  his 
work  at  Wallington,  for  there  he  had  to  contend  with  a  soil  which  at 
first  was  anything  but  "  very  agreeable,"  so  that  his  results,  great  and 

A  Garden  in  Surrey.  1 75 

■mall,  have  been  accomplished  in  the  face  of  difficulties  with  which 
the  lords  of  Beddington  never  had  to  contend. 
For  the  remaining  history  of  the  Care  w  family  and  of  their  mansion 

at  Beddington,  we  are  largely  indebted  to  Mr.  Smee's  researches. 
He  tells  us  that  Sir  Francis,  that "  grand  old  gardener  "  and  courtier  in 
one,  died  a  bachelor  in  May,  r6n,  at  the  venerable  age  of  eighty-one, 
leaving  his  estates  to  his  nephew,  Sir  Nicholas  Throckmorton,  who 

1 76  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

took  the  name  and  arms  of  Carew  on  inheriting  Beddington.  It  was 
in  the  time  of  this  Sir  Nicholas  that  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was  beheaded, 
and  it  was  to  him  that  Sir  Walter's  widow,  his  sister,  addressed  a  request 
to  the  effect  that  he  might  be  buried  in  Beddington  Church.  It  does 
not  appear  from  history,  nor  does  Mr.  Smee  inform  us,  whether  this 
request  w«as  refused  or  subsequently  withdrawn  by  Sir  Walter's  widow ; 
but,  at  all  events,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was  buried  in  St  Margaret's 
Church,  Westminster,  while  his  head,  after  being  cut  off  by  the  axe 
of  the  executioner,  was  sent  to  his  son  at  West  Horseley,  in  Surrey, 
where  it  was  interred.  The  letter  itself,  as  given  by  Mr.  Smee,  is 
well  worth  preserving,  and  accordingly  we  reproduce  it  here : — 

To  my  best  Bfrother],  Sirr  Nicholes  Carew,  at  Beddington. — I  desair,  good 
brother,  that  you  will  be  pleased  to  let  me  berri  the  worthi  boddi  of  my  nobell 
hosbar,  Sirr  Walter  Ralegh,  in  your  chorche  at  Beddington — wher  I  desair  to  be 
berred.  The  lordes  have  given  me  his  ded  boddi,  though  they  denyed  me  his 
life.  This  nit  hee  shall  be  brought  you  with  two  or  three  of  my  men.  Let  me 
her  (hear)  presently.    E.  R.     God  holde  me  in  my  wites. 

The  lands  at  Beddington  remained  in  the  hands  of  the  Carews  till 
the  year  1791,  when  Sir  Nicholas  H.  Carew,  Bart,  (whose  father  had 
been  raised  to  that  title  in  1715)  left  them  to  his  only  daughter  for 
life,  and  then,  at  her  death,  to  the  eldest  son  of  Dr.  John  Fountain, 
Dean  of  York ;  and  if  he  had  no  son  (which  in  the  event  proved  to 
be  the  case),  then  he  entailed  them,  by  his  will,  on  the  eldest  son  of 
Richard  Gee,  Esq.,  of  Orpington,  in  Kent,  who  took  the  name  and 
arms  of  Carew  by  Royal  license,  his  grandmother  having  been 
born  a  Carew.  On  his  dying  a  bachelor  in  181 6,  he  bequeathed 
Beddington  to  the  widow  of  his  brother  William,  Mrs.  Anne  Paston 
Gee,  and  she  again,  at  her  death,  in  1828,  devised  the  estate  to 
Admiral  Sir  Benjamin  Hallowell,  who  thereon  took  the  name  of 
Carew.  His  son,  Captain  Carew,  some  twenty  years  ago,  sold  the 
estate,  with  its  mansion,  orangeries,  park,  and  deer.  The  rest  of  the 
story  may  be  briefly  told.  The  proud  Hall  of  Beddington,  where 
Queen  Elizabeth  and  her  Court  were  once  entertained,  is  now  a 
public  institution ;  and  the  old  stock  of  the  Carews,  in  spite  of  having 
been  bolstered  up  by  entails  and  adoptions  of  the  name  by  descendants 
in  the  female  line,  passed  away  last  year,  when  the  last  bearer  of  the 
name  died,  homeless  and  landless,  in  one  of  the  lesser  streets  pf 
London.     Such  are,  indeed,  the  "  vicissitudes  of  families." 

We  must  leave  Mr.  Smee  to  tell  our  readers  the  history  of  Bed- 
dington parish  church,  its  tower,  nave,  and  aisles,  its  mortuary  chapel, 
its  brasses  and  other  monuments,  and  its  recent  restoration  under  the 

A  Garden  in  Surrey.  177 

present  rector.  It  contains,  we  will  only  state  here,  many  monu- 
ments of  the  Carews,  which  will  serve  to  keep  alive  the  memory  of 
that  antique  family  when  the  present  generation  shall  have 'passed 
awayv  The  cut  representing  a  distant  view  of  Beddington  Church 
as  seen  across  the  park  from  Mr.  Smee's  garden  is  kindly  lent  to  us 
by  the  author. 

The  neighbourhood  of  Beddington  and  Wallington  is  very  richly 
timbered,  though  many  fine  trees  have  been  cruelly  and  needlessly 
cut  down.  One  tree  of  historic  interest,  for  two  centuries  known 
among  the  villagers  as  Queen  Elizabeth's  Oak,  and  which  bore  some 
resemblance  to  Heme's  Oak  in  Windsor  Park,  as  Mr.  Smee  tells  us, 
was  "  ruthlessly  removed  a  few  years  since  to  make  way  for  an  ugly 
new  watercourse,  and  carried  to  a  timber  yard  in  Croydon."  It  is  not 
difficult  to  imagine  its  fate.  But  its  memory  ought  to  be  preserved ; 
and  we  reproduce  an  interesting  outline  of  it 


It  only  remains  to  add  that  Mr.  Smee's  handsome  and  agreeable 
volume  is  adorned  with  several  hundreds  of  exquisite  wood  engra- 
vings, large  and  small,  illustrative  of  the  subjects  of  which  he  treats — 
subjects  nearly  as  many  and  manifold  as  were  discoursed  of  by  the 
Jewish  King  of  old,  who  spake  of  all  trees,  "  from  the  cedar  to  the 
hyssop  on  the  wall."  These  illustrations,  several  specimens  of  which 
we  have  been  allowed  to  transfer  to  our  own  pages,  range  over 
every  possible  subject  in  any  way  connected  with  a  garden,  even 
down  to  the  minutest  of  shells,  aphides,  and  fungi,  and,  shall  we  say 
the  tiny  friends  or  enemies  of  the  horticulturist  ? — birds  and  worms. 

1 78  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

For  much  of  the  contents  and  of  the  ornamentation  of  his  volume,  Mr. 
Smee,  we  observe,  is  indebted  to  the  skill  and  industry  of  his  accom- 
plished daughter ;  and  the  majority  of  the  botanical  drawings  have 
been  made  and  engraved  by  Mr.  Worthington  Smith,  the  fungologist, 
while  the  geological  map  of  the  district  in  which  the  author's  modern 
Eden  stands,  has  been  supplied  from  the  Ordnance  Survey  Office  by 

Sir  Henry  James. 

E.  Walford,  M.A. 

Plantagenet's  Well; 

A    True   Story   of   the    Days    of    Richard    the   Third. 


Around  the  hall  were  martial  shields, 

Which  baron  bold  and  knights  of  yore 
Had  borne  in  murderous  battle-fields — 

Where  prince  and  peasant  fell  before 
The  well-aimed  blow  and  hurtled  spear. 

M.  S. 

The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  wild — 

It  was  a  sound  of  joy ! 
They  were  my  playmates  when  a  child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild  ! 
And  still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled 

As  if  I  were  a  boy. 

Prelude— Longfellow. 

T  was  the  close  of  a  day  in  early  summer.  The  last 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  made  the  forest  trees  shine  like 
burnished  gold,  reflecting  them  in  the  depths  of  still, 
calm  pools,  which  here  and  there  diversified  the  scene. 
Groups  of  sheep  and  herds  of  deer  were  browsing  on  the  short 
velvet  grass,  making,  with  the  sweet  notes  of  forest  birds  and  the 
ever  busy  hum  of  insects,  a  perfect  picture  of  happy,  peaceful  English 

Two  people  were  walking  through  the  sunny  forest  glades :  judging 
from  his  dress,  one  was  a  priest,  the  other  a  boy  of  some  fourteen 

The  priest  was  a  man  of  about  fifty-five,  tall,  and  rather  inclined 

to  embonpoint.     He  had  earnest  grey  eyes,  hair  of  snowy  whiteness, 

a  Roman  nose,  rather  a  weak  expression  about  his  mouth,  and  a  broad, 

intellectual  forehead. 

A  more  benevolent  looking  man  was  perhaps  never  seen,  and  his 

1 80  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

character  was  fully  carried  out  by  his  deeds.  He  was  a  good,  kind  . 
friend  to  the  poor ;  none  who  sought  his  aid  ever  went  away  with 
their  griefs  unlightened,  if  it  was  in  his  power  to  assuage  them, 
and  if  it  was  not,  his  poorer  neighbours  took  the  will  for  the  deed,  and 
returned  home  comforted.  Every  one,  and  with  reason,  blessed  the 
good  Padre,  or  Father  John,  as  the  people,  usually  called  him. 
Casual  observers  might  have  taken  him  for  the  father  of  the 
fine  boy,  whose  hand  was  so  confidingly  placed  in  his.  He  was, 
however,  only  his  sincere  friend,  guardian,  and  preceptor.  ,  The 
boy  himself  was  in  appearance  slight  and  tall.  He  had  a  frank, 
open  countenance,  deep  blue  eyes  which  looked  at  you  fearlessly,  a 
very  straight  nose,  a  complexion  sunburnt  from  exposure  to  all 
weathers,  and  a  mouth  and  chin  whose  expression  showed  an  amount 
of  firmness  and  perseverance  rarely  seen  in  one  so  young:  Very 
small  feet,  and  white,  strong  hands,  gave  evidence  of  gentle,  perhaps 
noble  birth.  As  the  two  sauntered  along,  they  were  engaged  in  a 
conversation  which  seemed  deeply  interesting  to  both  master  and 
pupil,  and  well  it  might  be,  as  the  subject  under  their  notice  was 
none  other  than  Homer. 

As  they  discussed  the  glorious  poetry  of  the  grand  old  bard, 
and  Father  John  told  his  young  pupil  of  the  brave  deeds  of 
the  warriors  there  described,  the  boy's  eyes  sparkled  and  his 
cheeks  flushed,  and,  clasping  his  hands,  he  eagerly  exclaimed, 
"Oh!  that  I  may  live  to  be  a  man,  then  will  I  be  a  soldier,  and  by 
God's  grace  will  strive  to  imitate  these  glorious  deeds." 

"  Yes,  Richard,"  said  the  kind  priest,  smiling  at  his  companion's 
boyish  enthusiasm,  "  so  you  shall ;  and  meantime,  by  much  study 
during  these  precious  years  of  your  boyhood,  and  many  deeds  of 
charity,  making  your  poorer  neighbours'  woes  your  own,  you  will 
earn  a  crown  of  immortal  glory,  better,  far  better,  than  all  the  perish- 
able ones  of  this  world." 

In  conversations  such  as  this  did  the  good  Father  strive  to  sow 
in  his  young  charge's  mind  the  seeds  of  good  deeds,  of  acts  which 
should  make  his  name  blessed  in  many  an  humble  abode,  looked  up 
to  and  reverenced  even  as  his  own  was,  and  the  boy  gave  promise 
of  repaying  his  guardian  for  all  his  trouble  and  unceasing  care. 
So  conversing,  the  two  came  to  a  large  rambling  old  house,  situated 
in  the  heart  of  the  forest  It  consisted  of  two  wings — one  entirely 
covered  with  ivy,  which  clung  to  its  grey,  time-stained  walls, 
twining  itself  in  and  out  of  the  quaint  casements,  making  the 
home  of  many  a .  sparrow  and  starling,  which,  in  return  for  the 
shelter  afforded   them,   sang  a   never  ending    hymn  of  joy  and 

Plantagenefs  Well.  181 

praise.  Jn  the  lovers'  "  Language  of  Flowers,"  ivy  means  "  True 
Friendship."  Its  powers  of  constancy  are  beautifully  described 
in  the  following  lines  of  Bernard  Barton,  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Hemans : — 

It  changes  not  as  seasons  flow 

In  changeful,  silent  course  along, 
Spring  finds  it  verdant,  leaves  it  so, 

It  outlives  Summer's  song; 
Autumn  no  wan  nor  russet  stain 

Upon  its  fadeless  glory  flings, 
And  Winter  o'er  it  sweeps  in  vain 

With  tempest  on  his  wings. 

The  other  side  of  the  house  was  built  of  grey  stone,  and  ended 
with  a  square-built  tower,  where,  at  certain  hours,  the  curfew  rang, 
bidding  all  to  put  out  their  fires  and  lights.  A.  characteristic  old 
porch,  with  a  door  curiously  studded  with  steel  nails,  opened  into 
a  moderate-sized  hall,  strewn  with  rushes,  and  with  a  fire  o£  huge 
logs  of  wood  shedding  a  warm  glow  over  everything. 

High  backed  chairs,  the  legs  of  carved  wood,  and  the  seats  of 
crimson  leather,  were  placed  round  the  hall,  in  the  centre  of  which 
stood  an  immense  oaken  table.  Trophies  of  the  chase  adorned  the 
walls,  stags'  heads,  with  noble  antlers ;  spears,  and  banners,  and  other 
implements  of  use  and  war  were  scattered  about. 

It  was  the  ioth  day  of  June,  in  the  year  of  grace  1481.  Here,  in 
this  lonely  forest  retreat,  Richard  had  spent  all  his  life,  as  far  as  he 
could  remember,  with  no  companion  but  Father  John,  ignorant 
whose  son  he  was,  or  even  if  his  parents  were  living.  Richard  was 
the  only  name  by  which  he  knew  himself. 

His  leisure  hours  were  spent  in  the  forest  in  summer,  and  in 
reading  — curled  up  in  the  deep  seats  of  the  windows  in  the  old  hall, 
when  the  weather  was  too  severe  for  him  to  go  out  It  was  a 
happy  life,  free  from  care  and  sorrow. 

His  little  room  opened  into  Father  John's,  and  his  in  turn  into  the 
JialL  None  of  the  numerous  other  rooms  in  the  house  were  ever 
used,  except  the  kitchen  and  a  tiny  room  where  the  one  servant 
of  the  establishment,  old  Allan,  slept  and  grumbled.  He  was  a  quaint 
old  man,  in  keeping  with  the  house  and  furniture.  He  had  a  hooked 
nose,  like  a  parrot's,  small  black  eyes,  set  very  near  together,  which 
made  him  look  as  if  he  could  read  every  thought  in  your  mind,  and 
grey  hair,  which  hung  in  locks  down  his  back  from  under  a  velvet 
cap.  He  was  very  active,  in  spite  of  his  seventy  years,  and  really 
willing,  but  he  had  a  tongue  like  the  clapper  of  a  bell. 

Such  were  Richard's  companions  and  life  at  the  age  of  fourteen. 
Vol,  X.,  N.S.  1873.  o 

1 82  The  Gentleman* s  Magazine. 

Money  was  supplied  to  the  house  from  time  to  time  by  a  stranger 
who  paid  them  short  visits.  The  days  passed  on  swiftly  and  quietly 
until  the  October  following  the  day  when  this  tale  begins.  It  was 
early  in  the  month,  but  the  trees  were  changing  fast;  every  day 
seemed  to  deepen  and  alter  the  beauty  of  their  tints.  The  leaves 
as  they  fell  lay  rotting  in  heaps,  making  a  melancholy  picture.  One 
day  the  stranger  came  and  took  Richard  away  with  him.  After  going 
through  many  miles  of  country,  and  stopping  frequently  to  rest,  they 
came  at  last  to  a  very  large  city  with  hundreds  of  houses,  thousands 
of  men,  women,  and  children  thronging  the  streets,  and  where  the 
noise  and  tumult  seemed  to  bewilder  Richard.  Presently  they 
stopped  at  a  large  house,  like  a  palace,  and  the  stranger  led  the 
boy  into  a  lofty  hall,  where  state  and  splendour  seemed  to  reign. 
Passing  through  the  hall,  they  came  to  a  range  of  rooms,  each  more 
magnificent  than  the  last,  with  sculptured  arches,  painted  roofs, 
matchless  tapestry  adorning  the  walls,  the  floor  carpeted  with  rashes, 
in  marked  contrast  to  the  splendour  of  the  rest  of  the  place.  At 
last  Richard's  guide  left  him,  and  he  remained  alone  in  a  state  of 
suspense  and  fear,  although  he  did  not  know  of  what  he  was 

Presently,  to  his  astonishment,  a  man  of  noble  mien  appeared; 
his  commanding  form  and  stately  bearing  awed  Richard,  as  he 
advanced  towards  him,  fixing  his  penetrating  eyes  upon  his  nice. 
His  vest  was  studded  with  thick  ribs  of  gold,  a  purple  velvet  robe 
hung  in  folds  around  him,  royal  jewels  glittered  on  his  breast,  with 
the  Order  of  the  Garter  prominent  among  them,  and  on  his  head  a 
crimson  velvet  cap,  richly  bordered  with  ermine,  and  with  a  white 
feather,  kept  in  its  place  by  a  brooch  of  diamonds.  Richard  tried 
to  bend  his  knee  to  him,  but  his  limbs  refused  their  office ;  so  he 
stood  there,  quiet  and  still,  but  with  a  sort  of  doubtful  joy  in  his 
heart.  Seeing  Richard's  fear,  the  great  man  strove  to  mitigate 
the  harshness  of  his  brow,  and  with  kind  speeches  cheered 
his  aching  heart.  He  questioned  Richard  closely  on  his  manner  of 
life,  what  his  occupations  and  amusements  were,  and  stroked  his 
sunny  curls. 

Yet  while  he  talked  he  seemed  to  be  always  keeping  something 
back ;  his  looks  implied  much  more  than  his  speeches  said.  Then  he 
gave  Richard  an  embroidered  purse,  heavily  filled  with  gold,  and 
kindly  pressed  his  hand.  For  some  time  did  they  stand  thus,  die 
man  of  noble  mien  looking  deeply  into  Richard's  face,  his  bosom 
swelling  with  emotion,  as  though  he  wished  to  speak ;  but  suddenly 
he  started,  frowned,  and  abruptly  left  the  room. 

Plantagenet's  Well.  183 


Richard's  guide  returned,  and  found  him  dazed  and  startled  by  the 
interview.  They  got  on  their  horses  again,  and  began  their  home- 
ward journey. 

Richard's  guide  seemed  a  mild,  kind  man,  so  he  thought  he  would 
unburden  his  mind,  and  ask  him  a  few  questions. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  Richard,  "  tell  me,  I  pray  you,  why  you  show  such 
care  for  me,  why  you  employ  your  time  in  my  behalf.  And  tell  me 
who  is  that  man  of  pride  and  dignity  who  deigns  to  notice  a  stranger 

Richard's  question  confused  his  guide,  but  he  did  not  seem  dis- 
pleased; but  he  told  him  nothing,  though  he  seemed  to  know 
much ;  he  said  : 

"Youth,  you  owe  me  no  obligation ;  I  only  do  my  duty ;  you  have 
no  kindred  blood  with  mine ;  but,  hard  to  say,  your  birth  must  to 
you  still  Temain  a  secret.    Ask  no  more." 

Thus  he  reproved  Richard,  doing  it,  however,  as  if  he  pitied 
him;  so  Richard  bowed  to  his  mild  rebuke,  and  promised  obedience. 

Arrived  at  the  old  hall,  he  consigned  Richard  to  his  faithful  guar- 
dian's care,  and,  blessing  him  by  the  Holy  Cross,  departed. 

After  he  was  gone  Richard's  heart  waxed  sad ;  he  felt  as  if  he 
had  sustained  some  heavy  loss ;  but  in  the  company  of  Father  John 
all  tumultuous  thoughts  gave  way,  his  looks  and  words  alike  softened 
sorrow.  Unruly  care  was  far  distant  from  him.  Griefs  wildest  ravings 
ceased  in  his  presence,  and  in  his  blameless  life  well  did  he  prove 
"  That  the  House  of  Goodness  is  the  House  of  Peace." 

Here  for  some  months  Richard's  life  flowed  on  evenly,  quietly, 
with  nothing  to  mark  the  days.  By  degrees  he  began  to  feel 
that  perhaps  it  was  well  for  him  that  he  was  ignorant  of  the  secret  of 
his  birth,  and  to  see  that  he  had  better  not  try  to  find  out  that  which 
late  appeared  to  wish  concealed. 

But  soon  things  were  altered ;  his  visionary  hopes  passed  away, 
leaving  a  future  dark  and  drear.  As  in  March  the  sunshine  seems 
to  give  promise  of  a  fine  day,  but,  with  that  treachery  which 
belongs  to  the  time,  as  the  day  wears  on  the  sun  disappears,  leaving 
everything  damp  and  gloomy — this  was  the   case  with  Richard's 

One  day  his  guide  arrived  not  as  of  late,  quiet  and  calm,  but  he 

seemed  possessed  with  a  wild  impatience;  care  and  thought  were 

written  in  his  face. 

"  Rise,  youth,"  said  he  to  Richard,  "and  mount  this  steed." 

Richard  did  as  he  was  told,  and  bidding  farewell    to  Father 

John,  mounted  the  horse  which  was  standing,    richly  caparisoned,, 

o  2 

1 84  The  Gentlernarls  Magazine. 

at  the  door.  They  rode  on  in  silence  at  the  utmost  speed,  and, 
only  remaining  a  few  moments  for  rest  and  food,  kept  on  until 
their  panting  coursers  brought  them  to  Bosworth,  in  Leicestershire. 

Here  they  stopped,  but  did  not  dismount  Richard  gazed  around 
him  with  astonishment,  and  his  heart  began  to  beat  fast.  Far 
as  the  eye  could  see  stretched  a  wilderness  of  tents,  with  banners 
floating  in  the  air,  prancing  steeds  all  around,  and  archers  trimly 
dressed.  The  sun  was  just  setting  in  a  cloud  of  burnished  gold, 
tipping  the  points  of  the  spears  everywhere  to  be  seen  until  they  shone 
like  fire.  The  hum  of  many  voices  resounded  on  the  evening  air, 
and  sounds  of  music  from  time  to  time  came  floating  down  the 

Twilight  crept  on  swiftly ;  the  chieftains  were  all  in  their  tents,  and 
sentinels  were  posted  around.  Richard  and  his  guide  moved  on 
towards  the  tents  with  wary  pace,  and  dismounting,  befriended  by  the 
stars,  which  shone  with  a  bright  light,  they  walked  quickly  on,  answer- 
ing the  challenge  of  the  sentinels,  until  they  came  on  a  martial  form 
who  barred  their  further  progress. 

He  seemed  to  be  listening,  his  face  muffled  in  his  cloak.  Suddenly 
throwing  it  back,  he  snatched  Richard's  hand,  and,  leading  him  with 
swift  steps,  never  slackened  his  pace  until  he  came  to  a  splendid 
tent.  The  pavilion  was  hung  with  glowing  crimson,  the  shade 
deepened  by  the  light  of  many  tapers.  A  royal  couch  was  in  the 
centre,  and  beside  it  lay  a  polished  suit  of  armour,  bright  and  ready 
for  its  owner's  use. 

The  crown  was  there  glittering  in  the  light  with  many  splendid 
gems  gracing  it,  and  close  by,  as  though  to  guard  its  safety  and 
dignity,  lay  a  weighty  "  curtelax  "  unsheathed.  The  chief  took  off  his 
cap,  and  drew  Richard  to  him.  Wrapt  in  gloom,  his  face  appeared 
like  a  clouded  sky  ere  the  tempest  bursts.  Revenge,  impatience — all 
that  maddens  the  soul — despair  and  frenzy,  were  revealed  in  his  face^ 
and  his  eyes  shone  like  burning  coals. 

Richard  felt  that  there  was  a  likeness  between  this  martial  form 
and  the  man  of  noble  mien  whom  he  had  seen  the  last  time  his  guide 
had  fetched  him.  Richard's  companion  tried  to  control  his  emotion ; 
he  seemed  to  be  fighting  with  himself — holding  himself  proudly. 
Richard  stood,  pale  and  trembling,  like  an  attentive  priest  who 
awaits  the  revelations  of  the  mystic  oak.  At  length  his  com- 
panion spoke. 

"No  longer  wonder,  O  youth,"  said  he,  "why  you  are  brought 
here ;  the  secret  of  your  birth  shall  now  be  revealed.  Know  Chat 
you  are  Imperial  Richard's  son !    I  who  hold  you  in  these  arms  am 

Plantagcnet's  Well.  185 

thy  father,  and  as  soon  as  my  power  has  quenched  these  alarms 
you  shall  be  known,  be  honoured,  and  be  great !  To-morrow,  boy,  I 
combat  for  my  crown.  Presumptuous  Richmond  seeks  to  win  renown, 
and  on  my  ruin  raise  his  upstart  name.  He  leads  a  renegade  band, 
strangers  to  war,  and  against  the  chieftains  of  the  land  means  to  try 
his  strength.  But  as  even  kings  cannot  command  the  chance  of  war, 
to-morrow's  sun  will  behold  me  conqueror  or  will  see  me  among  the 
dead ;  for  Richard  will  never  grace  the  victor's  car,  but  glorious  win 
the  day,  or  glorious  die  !  But  you,  my  son,  hear  me,  and  obey  my 
word.  Do  not  seek  to  mingle  in  the  coming  fray;  but,  far  from 
winged  shaft  and  gleaming  sword,  wait  in  patience  the  decision  of 
the  fight  North  of  the  camp  there  is  a  rising  mound ;  your  guide 
is  ready  to  take  you  there.  From  there  you  can  see  every  chance 
and  movement  of  the  battle.  If  righteous  fate  give  me  the  conquest, 
then  shall  your  noble  birth  be  known  to  all.  Then  you  may  boldly 
come  to  the  centre  of  the  field,  and  amidst  my  chieftains  I  will  own 
my  son.  But  if  I  am  robbed  of  empire  and  renown,  then  you  may 
be  sure  your  father's  eyes  will  be  closed  in  eternal  night,  for  life 
without  victory  were  dishonour  and  disgrace.  Should  proud  Rich- 
mond gain  the  day,  which  Heaven  forfend,  then  no  means  will  be 
left  you  but  instant,  speedy  flight ;  you  must  veil  your  head  and  seek 
concealment  For  on'  Richard's  friends,  far  more  than  on  his  son, 
Richard's  foes  will  wreak  their  vengeance,  rage,  and  fear,  even  when 
Richard  himself  shall  be  no  more.  So,  go,  my  son ;  one  more  em- 
brace, and  Heaven  keep  you ;  some  short  reflections  claim  this 
awful  night  before  a  glimmering  in  the  east  heralds  the  approach  of 
day,  when  my  knights  attend  to  arm  me  for  the  fight" 

Once  more  Richard  knelt,  and  his  father  blessed  him ;  then,  strug- 
gling to  check  a  rising  tear,  he  led  him  forth  overwhelmed  with 

This  was  on  Sunday  evening,  August  the  21st,  in  the  year  of 
grace  1485.  The  morning  of  Monday,  the  22nd,  rose  dark  and 
gloomy,  a  fitting  emblem  of  what  was  to  follow.  The  two  armies 
were  so  near  each  other  that  during  the  night  many  deserted  Richard 
and  joined  Richmond's  army.  When  the  day  broke  the  forces  were 
drawn  up  in  line  of  battle.  The  fray  began,  but  no  vigour  was 
displayed  in  the  Royal  army  until  Lord  Stanley  suddenly  turned 
and  attacked  it  in  flank;  then  Richard  saw  that  all  was  lost,  and 
exclaiming,  "Treason!  Treason!  Treason !"  rushed  into  the  midst  of 
the  enemy,  and  made  his  way  to  the  Earl  of  Richmond,  hewing  down 
all  before  him. 

The  King's  valour  was  astonishingly  great  The  Earl  of  Richmond 

1 86  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

rather  shrank  back  at  the  sight  of  such  a  desperate  antagonist,  but 
his  attendants  gathered  round  him,  and  at  last  Richard,  who  fought 
like  a  wild  beast,  with  the  energy  and  courage  of  despair,  over- 
powered by  sheer  force  of  numbers,  fell  coyered  with  wounds.  His 
helmet  was  so  beaten  in  by  blows  that  its  form  was  quite  destroyed. 
He  fell  near  a  brook  which  runs  through  Bosworth  Field,  the  water 
of  which  long  remained  stained  with  blood. 

Thus  died  Richard  the  Third. 

The  battle  only  lasted  two  hours.  Young  Richard  witnessed  his 
father's  sad  fate  from  the  mound,  and  a  great  desire  came  over  him 
for  one  last  look  at  his  parent  But  remembering  his  father's  wishes 
with  respect  to  him  in  the  event  of  the  battie  going  in  Richmond's 
favour,  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  feeling  stunned  and  bewildered  with 
the  revelations  of  the  night  before  and  the  sad  events  of  the  day,  he 
turned  away,  and  with  one  last  look  at  the  place  where  his  father 
lay,  departed.  After  a  long,  weary  journey  he  found  himself  in 
the  heart  of  the  forest,  at  the  door  of  the  old  house,  where  all  his 
happy  childhood  had  been  spent,  and  as  the  thought  came  into  his 
mind  that  good  Father  John  still  remained  to  him,  he  felt  almost 
comforted.     But  Richard  was  doomed  to  disappointment. 

Going  into  the  old  hall,  he  saw  Father  John,  as  he  thought, 
asleep  in  his  chair,  but  going  up  to  him  found,  to  his  intense  sorrow, 
that  the  good  old  man  had  passed  away  to  that  God  whose  precepts 
he  had  so  well  inculcated  in  the  mind  of  his  young  pupil,  whose 
commandments  he  had  so  religiously  kept,  whose  word  he  had  so 
loved  to  obey. 

Richard's  grief  was  very  deep  at  being  deprived  in  a  few  short 
hours  of  his  father,  whom  he  had  only  found  to  lose  for  ever,  and  of 
the  kind  old  man  who  had  been  a  father  to  him  in  every  sense  of  the 
word.  After  paying,  in  company  with  old  Allan,  the  last  sad  respects 
to  his  loved  preceptor,  Richard  quitted  the  old  house  in  the  forest 
for  ever,  with  a  sincere  prayer  that  the  God  of  the  fatherless  would 
lead  him  to  some  safe  retreat,  where  daily  toil  might  give  him  bread 
and  teach  him  true  peace. 

For  days  he  wandered  on,  until  at  last  one  evening  he  came  to 
Eastwell  Park,  in  Kent  Its  owner  was  Sir  Thomas  Moyle,  a  benevo- 
lent man,  to  whom  he  applied  for  employment,  which  was  given 
him,  and  as  chief  bricklayer  he  lived  for  many  years  in  Sir  Thomas's 

In  1546  Sir  Thomas  gave  him  a  piece  of  ground,  with  permission 
to  build  himself  a  house  thereon.  This  he  accordingly  did.  One 
day  Sir  Thomas  came  upon  him,  sitting  by  the  side  of  a  well, 

Plantagenet9  s  Well.  187 

reading';  he  took  the  book  from  him,  and  was  surprised  to  see  it 
was  written  in  Latin,  and  that  "  Richard  Plantagenet"  was  inscribed 
on  the  fly  leaf. 

Sir  Thomas  said,  "  I  see  my  suspicions  were  well  founded.  All 
my  doubts  are  now  removed.  You  ought  to  hold  a  far  higher  posi- 
tion than  that  which  you  now  occupy;  you  ought  not  to  be 
clothed  in  tl^is  poor  manner,  and  occupy  a  dependent's  place. 
Drudgery  and  toil  were  not  your  position;  need  only  could  have 
brought  you  to  this,  not  your  birth  or  blood.  I  see  I  am  right  I 
read  the  answer  in  your  blushing  cheek,  in  your  downcast  eye ;  you 
need  not  have  resort  to  speech.  Often  have  I  seen  you  when  you 
thought  yourself  alone,  when  the  evening  bell  summoned  the  work- 
men from  their  tasks.  You  avoided  your  unlearned  comrades,  and 
with  slow  step  and  musing  eye  betook  yourself  to  some  quiet  favourite 
nook.  Your  attention  seemed  to  rove;  you  appeared  lost  to  all 
outward  sounds ;  and  if  any  one  came  by,  instantly  your  book  was 
hidden,  for  fear  some  one  should  descry  the  subject  of  your  medita- 
tions. Often  have  I  thought  Greek  and  Roman  page  were  no  sealed 
letters  to  you.  Much  have  I  wished  to  know  your  history,  but  now 
no  longer  keep  your  story  in  painful  secresy,  but  tell  with  simple 
truth,  not  to  your  master,  but  to  your  friend,  the  story  of  your  youth ; 
for  you  are  getting  on  in  life ;  it  is  time  your  labours  ceased ;  here 
you  shall  find  rest  and  a  quiet  home,  with  every  comfort  in  my  power 
to  give  to  endear  it  to  you.  Have  you  a  wish,  a  hope,  a  higher  bliss 
in  my  power  to  bestow  ?  Is  there  in  your  breast  any  aching  void  ? 
Tell  me  all  your  longings,  so  that  I  may  supply  them.  In  return, 
all  I  ask  is  your  history — confide  that  to  me." 

So  spoke  Sir  Thomas  Moyle ;  and  at  his  sympathetic  words 
Richard  raised  his  drooping  head,  and,  with  a  grateful  glance  at  his 
benefactor,  began  his  sad  tale.  Sir  Thomas  listened  with  deep  atten- 
tion, and  at  the  close,  shaking  the  old  man's  hand  kindly,  he  left  him 
to  repose. 

In  his  [comfortable  house  Richard  Plantagenet  lived  some  years 
after  this  discovery,  dying  at  the  ripe  old  age  of  eighty-one,  in  the 
fourth  year  of  Edward  the  Sixth's  reign,  and  he  was  buried  in  the 
parish  church  of  Eastwell,  in  Kent,  the  seat  of  the  present  Earl  of 
Winchilsea  and  Nottingham,  on  the  22nd  of  December,  1550. 

The  record  of  his  burial  is  still  to  be  found  in  the  old  register  of 
Eastwell  Church,  as  follows  : — 

"  Richard   Plantagenet   buried  the    22nd  daye    of   December, 


1 88  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

To  the  transcript  of  the  register  is  subjoined — "  It  is  observable 
that  in  the  old  register  there  is  prefixed  to  the  name  of  every  person 

of  noble  blood  such  a  mark  as  this 

At  the  name  of  Richard  Plantagenet  there  is  the  same  mark  (and  it 
is  the  first  that  is  so  distinguished),  only  with  this  difference,  that  there 

is  a  line  running  across  it  thus 

Richard  Plantagenet's  tomb,  in  the  wall  of  Eastwell  Church,  still 
exists,  but  it  appears  to  be  of  a  much  later  date.  There  is  remaining 
in  existence  in  Eastwell  Park  the  ruin  of  a  dwelling  said  to  have 
been  his  house,  and  a  dried-up  well  near  it,  which  to  this  day  is 
called  "  Plantagenefs  Well."  There  Sir  Thomas  Moyle  found  him 
and  heard  his  strange  eventful  history. 

The  Connaught  Man. 

'M  de  rale  ould  Connaught  man, 

De  son  av  de  Shan  Van  Vocht, 
Born  wid  a  screech  av  laughter 

On  de  top  of  a  travellin'  show 
In  de  year  Anni  Domino. 

Dey  rared  me  wid  proper  pride 

On  de  milk  av  a  piebald  mule ; 
Till  de  Shan,  says  she  (alludin'  to  me), 

"  Let's  be  sendin'  dat  child  to  school, 

Or  he'll  die  an  ign'rant  fool." 

So  I  wint,  and  in  six  months'  time, 

Wid  de  help  av  a  quarry  av  slate, 
And  a  flock  av  hins  for  making  pins, 

Ivery  scholar  at  all  I'd  bate 

In  classical  knowledge  complate. 

"  Now  it's  time  ye  should  choose  yer  profession," 

Wan  mornin'  remarked  de  Shan ; 
"  So  I'll  have  ye  put  in  de  mounted  fut 

On  board  a  Wesht-Indian  man — 

It's  de  only  sinsible  plan." 

Den  a  rovhV  life  I  lid, 

Crusadin'  de  ocean  blue 
Wid  Caizar  and  Hannibal  and  dat  long-legged  cannibal- 

De  comical  Chinese  Jew, 

And  de  rist  av  our  gallant  crew. 

But  I'll  only  attimpt  for  to  tell 

Av  our  grandest  advinture  av  all, 
Whin  we  chanced  to  meet  wid  de  Channel  Fleet 

On  de  top  av  de  Chinese  wall, 

In  de  middle  av  a  murtherin'  squall. 

Siven  bells  were  piped  by  de  watch 

As  we  luffed  on  de  larboard  tack, 
Whin  de  Chinese  Jew  through  his  telescope  cried, 

"  Dey're  flyin'  de  Union  Jack, 

Brace  ivery  binnacle  back." 

1 90  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

"  Now  clare  de  decks,"  says  he, 
"  For  I'm  goin'  to  take  command ; 

For  I  know  by  heart  ivery  mortial  part 
Av  my  native  say  and  land, 
And  de  sky  on  ayther  hand —    . 

"  We've  tin  rigimints  av  horse 
Chewin'  de  cud  below, 

And  a  park  of  artillery  bould 
Away  up  aloft,  I  know, 
Impatient  to  spake  to  de  foe. 

"  You,  Hannibal,  take  to  de  wather 
Wid  a  big  battalion  av  horse  ! 

And  let  Julius  Caizar  climb  de  shrouds 
To  command  de  artillery  force. 
I'll  remain  in  my  cabin  av  coorse  ; 

"  For  I  hear  it  beginnin'  to  tunder, 
And  de  lightnin,  '11  soon  commince, 

And  de  rain  in  me  eyes  it  vaaries  in  size 
From  a  shillin'  to  eighteen  pince, 
Divle  de  laste  pritince." 

So  into  de  wather,  intint  upon  slaugther, 
Bould  Hannibal  led  de  Huzzars, 

And  Julius  Caizar  saluted  de  foe 
Wid  sizeable  shrapnel  bars, 
From  his  post  on  de  mizin  spars : 

Till  de  mist  clared  slowly  off; 
And  what  do  ye  tink  we  found  ? 

Why  sure  dat  de  say  had  run  away 
And  lift  us  upon  dthry  ground, 
Wid  de  inimy  scatthered  around. 

And  a  finer  sight  nor  dat — 
For,  strokin'  his  charger's  neck, 

And  wavin'  his  hat,  bould  Hannibal  sat 
On  deir  Lord  High  Admiral's  deck, 
And  dat  same  a  beautiful  wreck. 

The  Connaught  Man.  191 

And  whin  we  politely  axed 

That  Lord  High  Admiral  if  he 
Would  lay  his  fleet  at  the  confluerin'  feet 

Of  our  good  ship  "  Anna  Liflfey," 

He  did  it,  bedad,  in  a  jiffey. 

But  wan  tires  in  coorse  av  time 

Av  such  scenes  av  sorraful  strife ; 
So  wid  lashins  av  pinsion  and  hon'rable  miotion 

I  widdrew  into  private  life, 

A  Caylebs  in  search  av  a  wife. 

So  all  you  rich  young  maids, 

And  widdies  wid  iligant  farms, 
Since  I've  freely  tould  what  a  haro  bould 

I'm  proved  by  my  deeds  av  arms, 

Listen  now  to  my  paicable  charms  t 

First  I  wakes  meself  up  in  de  mornin' 

Wid  a  cannon  I  brought  from  de  East; 
Den  I  kills  half  a  cow  for  my  break'ast, 

Before  milkin'  de  rest  of  de  baste, 

Lest  de  crayther  should  go  to  waste. 

Next  I  washes  de  nourishment  down 

Wid  spring  wather  mixed  wid  potheen, 
Thin  I  sits  my  cabin  on  fire, 

To  ridden  me  ould  dudheen, 

But  no  matther — de  thatch  is  green. 

And  dere  isn't  a  weddin'  at  all, 

A  funeral  or  a  fair, 
Or  any  sort  of  fun  and  sport, 

But  me  and  de  shtick  is  dere, 

Impatient  to  have  our  share. 

So  all  you  heiresses  dear, 

For  I've  thought  of  de  purtiest  plan, 
Come  in  sixes  and  sivens,  and  tins  and  ilivens 

To  your  darlin'  ould  Connaught  man, 

And  he'll  marry  yez  all  if  he  can. 

Alfred  Perceval  Graves. 

On  Horseback. 


IDING !  What  pages,  nay,  what  volumes,  have  been 
written  on  the  subject  of  that  most  delightful  and  in- 
vigorating of  all  modes  of  exercise,  and  with  what  result? 
One  would  suppose  from  the  theories  propounded,  and 
from  the  number  of  persons  of  both  sexes  who  have  been  induced, 
simply  by  reading  articles  treating  of  the  horse  and  his  rider,  to  try 
their  skill  in  the  noble  art  of  horsemanship,  that  there  was  nothing 
left  that  could  be  said,  and  no  further  advice  that  could  be  offered, 
either  to  those  who  wish  to  learn,  or  to  others  who  have  already 
"  graduated."  But  it  is  one  thing  to  read,  and  quite  another  to 
understand  and  profit  by  what  is  read — to  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly 
digest  the  thoughts  and  meaning  of  the  writer  as  conveyed  by  his 
words ;  and  this  more  especially  applies  to  all  that  has  ever  been 
written  in  regard  to  riding. 

Practical  experience  has  proved  to  me  the  difficulty  of  making 
pupils  comprehend,  in  the  spirit,  simple  instructions,  even  when  they 
profess  to  understand  the  meaning  of  any  technical  expression  made 
use  of;  and  unless  you  can  succeed  in  that  respect  the  chances  are 
very  much  against  any  satisfactory  result  being  gained  by  the  lessons 

My  remarks  are  intended  to  apply  almost  exclusively  to  the  female 
sex,  and  I  venture  to  assert  that  there  is  no  more  charming  sight 
than  a  graceful  woman  sitting  her  horse  with  ease  and  confidence ; 
but  a  really  good  horsewoman,  in  the  fullest  acceptation  of  the  term,  is 
rare  to  find.  I  make  this  assertion  with  all  due  deference  to  the 
numbers  who  ride,  and  who  ride  well  in  the  eyes  of  the  multitude 
who  are  not  over  critical ;  but  there  is  not  one  woman  in  fifty  who 
knows  what  she  is  about ;  and  it  is  not  always  the  riders'  own  fault 
that  they  are  so  ignorant,  it  is  chiefly  the  consequence  of  bad 
teaching.  No  man,  and  still  less  a  woman,  can  expect  to  ride  well 
unless  he  begins  very  young,  and  a  girl  has  less  chance  than  a 
boy  of  learning  to  ride  properly,  unless  she  has  a  mother,  or  other 
female  relative,  who,  being  herself  a  good  rider,  is  also  capable  of 
imparting  her  own  knowledge  to  her  youthful  pupil  The  custom 
prevalent  in  many  families,  of  the  daughters  being  allowed  to  take 
lessons  in  riding  either  in  a  fashionable  riding-school  in  London,  or 

On  Horseback.  193 

at  some  watering  place,  is,  in  many  respects,  most  objectionable,  and, 
to  say  the  least  of  it,  is  a  waste  of  time  and  money,  for  a  woman 
cannot  learn  to  ride  well  by  such  means.  A  man  who  has  good 
hands  himself  may  teach  a  woman  how  to  handle  reins,  and  to 
humour  her  horse's  mouth ;  but  it  is  quite  impossible  for  him  to 
teach  her  how  to  sit  in  her  saddle,  from  the  simple  fact  that  he  can- 
not do  it  himself.  A  man  is  as  much  at  sea  in  a  side-saddle  as  a 
landsman  would  be  if  he  were  sent  up  to  the  mast-head  without 
having  learned  in  early  youth  how  "  to  hold  on  by  his  eyelids  !" 

I  am  continually  told  that  a  side-saddle  must  hurt  a  horse's  back 
unless  the  animal  has  long  been  accustomed  to  carry  a  lady ;  but 
there  is  no  greater  mistake  than  to  suppose  that  to  be  a  necessary 
consequence.  If  the  saddle  fits  the  horse,  and  the  rider  sits  straight, 
there  will  be  no  more  mark  on  the  horse's  back  than  from  a  man's 
saddle ;  but  I  candidly  confess  that  these  two  points  are  not  very 
easy  to  attain — firstly,  because  one  seldom  finds  more  than  one  side- 
saddle, or  at  most  two,  in  ordinary  saddle^rooms,  and  they  do  not  fit 
horses  so  easily  as  a  man's  saddle,  and  the  second  point  can  only  be 
acquired  by  practice.  The  saddle  must  not  only  fit  the  horse  pro- 
perly, but  it  ought  to  suit  the  rider  equally  well ;  and  this  latter  and 
most  important  point  is  in  most  cases  completely  ignored.  I  hold 
that  for  the  rider  to  be  comfortably  seated  goes  a  long  way  towards 
preventing  the  saddle  from  injuring  the  horse's  back.  When  a 
saddler  makes  a  side-saddle  to  order,  he  invariably  wishes  the  lady 
to  see  it  in  progress  at  his  shop,  and  to  sit  on  it  for  him  to  judge  of 
the  position  of  the  pommels ;  but  in  default  of  personal  measurement, 
in  sending  a  written  order  the  lady  should  be  very  particular  to 
describe  her  height,  and  whether  she  possesses  long  or  short  legs,  for 
to  be  correct  in  this  last  respect  is  of  great  importance,  as  far  as 
comfort  in  the  saddle  goes.  If  the  rider  has  short  legs,  and  is  put 
into  a  long  saddle,  her  right  leg  will  not  have  a  proper  grasp  of  the 
centre  pommel,  and  she  will  thereby  feel  less  secure  in  her  seat, 
besides  being  uncomfortable ;  and  the  same  argument  applies  to  long 
legs  in  a  short  saddle  with  even  greater  force.  It  is  also  most  neces- 
sary that  the  third  pommel  should  come  exactly  in  the  right  place, 
for  if  it  is  placed  too  low  it  will  press  on  the  rider's  leg,  and  it  ought 
not  to  be  felt  unless  it  is  wanted.  Many  persons  advocate  extra 
straps  on  a  side-saddle — called  balance  straps ! — with  a  view  to 
keeping  it  straight ;  but  this  is  a  most  absurd  and  erroneous  idea, 
for  if  the  rider  does  not  sit  straight,  or  the  saddle  does  not  fit 
the  horse,  all  the  straps  that  ever  came  out  of  a  saddler's  shop  will 
not  keep  the  saddle  in  its  place,  and,  for  my  own  part,  I   even 

1 94  The  Gentleman fs  Magazine. 

object  to  the  usual  outside  strap  attached  to  side-saddles;  it  is  simply 
useless  lumber. 

Having  procured  a  suitable  saddle,  the  next  step  is  to  learn  to  sit 
on  it,  and  without  experience  this  is  not  so  simple  as  it  looks. 
Nothing  but  constant  practice  will  give  either  a  good  or  a  secure  seat ; 
balance  is  the  great  point,  and,  this  gained,  security  will  be  the  result. 
Many  a  woman  will  have  a  pretty  and  graceful  seat  on  horseback, 
but  it  does  not  follow  that  it  is  a  good  one,  and  a  good  and  secure 
seat  may  not  always  be  a  graceful  one.  When  the  horse  is  going 
only  at  a  foot  pace  the  rider  may  appear  to  sit  straight  and  well,  but 
put  him  into  a  trot  and  then  let  us  watch — the  lady  is  now  all  on  one 
side,  leaning  well  in  her  stirrup,  so  as  to  rise  to  the  action  of  the 
horse,  leaving  a  great  space  of  saddle  on  the  off  side ;  this  is  not  as 
it  should  be.  It  is  quite  possible  for  a  woman  to  sit  as  straight  in 
trotting  as  at  a  slower  pace,  and  she  should  not  attempt  to  rise  solely 
from  the  stirrup,  for  by  so  doing  she  brings  the  saddle  out  of  its 
place,  and  a  sore  back  is  probably  the  consequence.  She  ought  to 
rise  from  her  right  knee,  pressing  it  down  between  the  pommels,  and 
then  there  will  be  no  fear  of  the  saddle  moving.  If  the  rider  cannot 
accomplish  this  at  first,  she  should  practise  a  few  times  without  a 
stirrup,  and  she  will  then  realise  the  merit  of  the  plan  suggested,  both 
in  keeping  the  saddle  straight  and  securing  her  own  balance. 

In  these  days  of  extra  pommels  a  stirrup  is  not  necessary  to  a  lady 
in  the  same  degree  that  stirrups  are  to  a  man,  and  if  it  were  dispensed 
with  in  a  beginner,  till  her  balance  in  the  saddle  is  certain,  we  should 
not  see  ladies  "  working  "  in  their  saddles,  for  they  would  then  have 
no  lever  to  enable  them  to  wriggle  about,  and  it  is  this  same  wriggling 
that  gives  so  many  sore  backs,  which  a  quiet,  firm  seat  never  does. 

To  revert  to  a  previous  remark  on  the  rarity  of  good  horsewomen, 
I  again  repeat  it,  but  I  use  the  term  as  distinguished  from  "plucky" 
or  hard  riders.  Women  who  combine  these  qualities,  and  who  ride 
well  to  hounds,  are  generally  mounted  on  good  hunters  who  know 
their  business,  and  their  riders  being  ignorant  of  their  danger  they 
get  the  credit  of  being  good  riders,  though  it  does  not  follow  that 
they  are  good  horsewomen ;  but  if  one  of  the  number  can  add  the 
'latter  accomplishment  to  the  list  she  gains  a  hundred  per  cent  of 
pleasure  more  than  her  sister  equestrians. 

One  often  hears  men  say  that  such  a  horse  in  their  stable  pulls  so 
hard  that  there  is  little  pleasure  in  riding  him,  although  he  is  perfect 
in  every  other  respect,  and  yet  that  he  is  as  quiet  as  a  lamb  with  a 
lady,  because  all  women  have  light  hands.  This  is  so  far  true  that  a 
woman's  hand  must  be  lighter  than  a  man's,  for  the  reason  that  there 

On  Horseback.  195 

is  less  weight  of  muscle ;  and  when  a  horse  with  a  fretful  mouth  has 
been  continually  pulled  at  by  the  heavy  hand  of  a  man,  or  ridden 
much  at  exercise  by  grooms,  who  do  more  to  ruin  horses' mouths  than 
any  one,  and  then  feels  the  lighter  one  of  a  woman,  he  naturally  goes 
more  pleasantly,  and  ceases  to  pull  because  he  is  not  pulled  at.  I  do 
not  deny  that  there  are  men  with  hands  as  light  and  delicate  in  the 
handling  of  a  horse's  mouth  as  those  of  any  woman,  and  if  the  gene- 
rality of  men  were  to  hold  on  less  by  their  horse's  mouth  they 
would  not  find  so  many  hard  pullers  to  complain  of.  Not  but  what 
it  is  an  advantage  to  a  powerful  horse,  that  has  to  carry  sixteen  stone 
or  more,  if  he  can  carry  some  of  the  weight  in  his  mouth — that  is  to 
say,  be  allowed  to  lean  a  little  on  his  bit.  A  woman's  hands  ought  to 
be  by  nature  light,  but  many  are  hard  and  without  any  elasticity  of 
wrist  or  finger,  and  these  require  special  training  to  acquire  the  art  of 
using  the  reins  lightly.  It  is  very  surprising  to  see  how  many  riders 
there  are  of  both  sexes  who,  when  they  have  once  got  hold  of  the 
reins,  are  afraid  of  letting  them  go  again,  and  this  is  one  cause  of 
"deadness"  of  hand;  and  another  consequence  is  that;  if  the  horse 
ducks  his  head  or  alters  the  position  in  any  way  the  rider's  body  goes 
with  the  reins  instead  of  holding  them  with  ease,  so  as  to  allow  of  the 
arm  only  following  the  vagaries  of  the  horse's  head. 

Few  people  agree  with  respect  to  the  bit  most  suitable  for  a  lad/s 
horse,  but  my  own  opinion  is  that  a  plain  double  bridle  is  the  best, 
and  of  as  light  a  kind  as  can  be  to  suit  his  mouth.  The  Dimchurch 
curb,  with  its  moveable  mouthpiece,  is  the  best  I  know  among  bits 
that  can  be  light  or  sharp  according  to  the  height  of  the  port. 
It  is  also  insisted  on  by  many  persons  that  it  is  better  for  a  lady  to 
use  only  the  curb  and  to  allow  the  bridoon  to  hang  loose,  with  the 
idea  that  the  rider  has  more  purchase,  and  that  it  will  make  the  horse 
go  more  on  his  haunches ;  but  if  the  horse  has  not  been  properly 
trained  to  bring  his  hind  legs  well  under  him,  or  his  make  and  shape 
are  impediments,  a  sharp  bit  will  not  have  the  desired  effect,  and  if 
the  rider  only  uses  the  curb  all  chance  of  learning  "  hand  "  is  gone. 
The  rider  ought  to  use  both  reins  in  quick  paces,  slackening  or 
tightening  each  according  to  the  pace  she  wishes  to  go  and  to  the 
horse's  eagerness  at  the  moment  and  if  she  can  only  learn  to  do  this, 
and  never  to  keep  a  dead  pull,  and  to  understand  the  merit  and 
advantage  of  thus  playing  with,  her  horse's  mouth,  she  will  have 
advanced  a  great  way  towards  becoming  a  good  horsewoman. 

Those  who  begin  as  children  in  the  country  have  a  great  advantage 
over  their  sisters  whom  circumstances  have  prevented  from  ever 
getting  on  a  horse  until  they  have  arrived  at  woman's  estate.    These 

196  The  GentlemarCs  Magazine. 

have  a  hard  task  before  them,  and  their  teachers  a  still  harder  one,  par- 
ticularly if  they  are  self-sufficient  damsels  who,  seeing  others  ride,  think 
that  it  is  only  necessary  to  procure  a  habit  and  a  horse  to  enable 
them  to  hold  their  own  either  in  Rotten  Row  or  even  in  the  hunting 
field.     I  am  not  making  this  assertion  without  personal  knowledge 
of  several  instances  of  this  same  self-sufficiency  and  the  terrible  acci- 
dents that  have  been  the  natural  consequences.     To  attain  perfection 
in  the  art  of  riding,  a  woman  ought  not  only  to  have  begun  in 
early  childhood,  but  she  and  her  pony  must  understand  each  other 
thoroughly,  so  that  when  she  is  old  enough  to  be  trusted  out  riding 
alone,  she  can  make  her  pony  her  companion  and  friend,  be  able  to 
get  on  and  off  without  assistance,  in  search  of  wild  flowers,  nuts, 
or  any  similar  country  pursuit.     As  her  pony  gives  place  to  a  horse, 
the  latter  will  become  equally  her  friend ;  and  to  go  out  with  her 
horse  for  a  "  schooling  "  ride  will  be  as  natural  a  mode  of  taking  air 
and  exercise  as  a  drive  in  the  family  carriage,  or  a  prim  constitutional 
walk  with  the  governess  or  companion,  would  be  to  the  more  con- 
ventionally brought  up  young  woman.     We  need  hardly  ask  which 
is  likely  to  prove  the  more  cheerful  and  healthy  of  the  two.     An 
experienced  horsewoman  should  always  wear  a  spur  when  out  alone 
or  on  a  "  schooling  "  expedition,  as  she  will  know  when  and  how  to 
use  it,  and  a  horse  will  always  go  better  up  to  his  bit  when  he  knows 
his  rider  has  a  spur — but  I  do  not  by  any  means  recommend  a 
beginner  to  wear  one,  as  she  may  use  it  unconsciously.      These 
" schooling"  rides  which  I  suggest  will  have  the  effect  of  making  a 
horse  much  more  handy  in  the  hunting  field  as  well  as  for  hack 
riding.     And  he  will  not  mind  being  turned  away  from  other  horses, 
if  he  has  been  accustomed  to  jump  in  cold  blood ;  he  and  his  rider 
will  also  be  more  clever  at  opening  gates.     This  may  seem  a  super- 
fluous remark,  but  experience  has  taught  me  how  few  men  there  are 
who  know  how  to  open  a  gate,  and  still  fewer  women  ;  and  however 
much  hard  riders  may  scorn  gates,  being  able  to  open  them  is  a  very 
necessary  accomplishment  both  for  hack  riding  and  hunting.     Many 
men  are  unable  to  catch  a  gate  when  it  is  opened,  much  less  to  open 
it  and  fling  it  for  those  who  follow.     It  has  often  happened  to  me  in 
going  from  covert  to  covert,  and  even  when  hounds  have  been  run- 
ning, that  a  gentleman  has  kindly  offered  to  open  a  gate  for  me,  and 
on  accepting  his  assistance  I  found  him  unable  to  do  so  and  I  have 
opened  it  for  him  instead. 

The  kind  of  "  schooling  "  before  mentioned  not  only  improves  the 
horse,  but  goes  a  long  way  towards  perfecting  his  rider's  hand,  for  the 
horse  may  not  always  be  in  the  same  temper,  and  he  may  require 

On  Horseback.  197 

more  patience  and  humouring  one  day  than  he  does  another,  but  in 
a  short  time  the  greatest  confidence  will  be  established  between  the 
two,  and  the  horse  is  such  a  noble  animal  that  he  will  do  far  more  for 
his  friend  than  he  will  do  for  the  mere  master  or  mistress  who  only 
cares  to  ride  him  for  the  sake  of  exercise  or  the  excitement  of  a 
gallop  :  and  he  repays  one  thoroughly  for  any  trouble  one  takes  in 
training  him.     The  woman  who  has  learned  to  ride  in  this  exceptional 
manner  will  be  much  less  dependent  on  others  in  the  hunting  field, 
whether  she  wishes  to  ride  hard  or  only  to  follow  the  line  by  means 
of  lanes  and  gaps,  with  an  occasional  fence,  and  we  shall  never  hear 
complaints  of  her  "  being  in  the  way,"  and  that  the  "  hunting  field  is 
no  place  for  a  woman,"  and  other  uncomplimentary  remarks,  which 
I  must  say  have  not  surprised  me  when  I  see  ladies  galloping  about, 
utterly  ignorant  as  to  why  they  gallop,  annoying  the  whole  field,  and 
most  of  all  their  male  friend,  father,  or  brother  as  the  case  may  be, 
whom  they  have  persuaded  to  take  them  out  for  a  day's  hunting.     If 
a  lady  is  to  go  out  hunting  in  any  fashion  let  her  be  able  to  take  care 
of  herself,  so  that  if  her  chaperon,  to  keep  near  the  hounds,  is  obliged 
to  take*  a  stiffer  line  than  she  or  her  horse  is  equal  to,  she  need  not 
be  a  clog  on  him,  but  let  her  follow  others  who  ride  less  hard  with- 
out feeling  it  necessary  to  appeal  to  them  for  help  or  protection, 
and  after  a  little  experience  she  will  discover  many  who,  although  no 
longer  able  to  ride  straight  to  hounds,  being  thorough  sportsmen,  are 
no  mean  pilots  to  pin  her  faith  on.     And  to  arrive  at  this  feeling  of 
independence  and  self-reliance  a  woman  must  have  learned  to  ride  in 
the  country  in  the  unconventional  manner  I  have  described.     It  may 
be  argued  that  this  training  will  make  her  "  horsey;  "  but  in  that  result 
as  a  necessary  consequence  I  do  not  agree  at  all,  for  in  most  cases 
the  more  she  really  knows  on  the  subject  the  more  quiet  she  will  be. 
The  really  "horsey"  damsel  in  the  "slang"  meaning  of  the  term  is 
usually  "  slangy  "  in  other  respects,  and  on  horseback  she  squares  her 
elbows,  holding  her  hands  anywhere  but  as  they  ought  to  be  held, 
frets  her  horse  to  death,  thinking  by  such  means  to  attract  notice  for 
her  good  horsemanship,  and  will  engage  in  "  horsey  "  talk,  probably 
proving  thereby  how  completely  ignorant  she  is  of  the  horse,  his 
nature,  and  his  ways.    Let  us  see  this  showy  lady  at  the  covert  side, 
and  listen  to  her  conversation,  and  then  compare  her  with  yonder 
quiet-looking  woman,  perfectly  "  got  up,"  with  her  hair,  whatever  the 
prevailing  fashion  may  be,  neatly  dressed  close  to  her  head,  and  the 
hat  firmly  set  on.    There  is  nothing  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
general  public ;  there  is  no  squaring  of  the  elbows  or  show  about  her, 
and  she  is  quite  content  to  exchange  a  few  words  with  acquaintances 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  p 

198  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

wjio  happen  to  be  near  her,  without  talking  too  much,  for  fear  of 
distracting  her  own  or  her  neighbour's  attention  from  the  business 
of  the  day,  and  she  listens  as  anxiously  as  any  one  for  the  first  whimper 
from  some  steady  old  hound  that  proclaims  the  "  quarry  "  to  be  on 
foot.  Then  my  quiet  friend  goes  off  with  her  chaperon  or.  groom,  and 
whether  she  intends  to  ride  hard  or  merely  to  follow  the  line,  the 
chances  are  that  she  will  not  be  far  off  at  the  finish,  and  that  without 
having  attracted  any  unpleasing  remark,  from  the  fact  of  her  never 
being  found  in  anybody's  way;  and  at  the  end  of  the  day  many  men 
will  probably  recall  how  they  saw  her  take  such  and  such  fences,  and 
will  wonder  how  it  happened  that  she  was  always  to  the  fore  but 
never  obtrusive. 

Her  flashy  rival  was  less  fortunate.  Ready  to  gallop  directly  the 
rest  of  the  field  started,  away  she  went,  without  in  the  least  knowing 
where  she  was  going  or  why,  and  after  being  nearly  squeezed  in  a 
gateway,  or  ridden  over  at  a  gap,  her  chaperon  wisely  guided  her  to  a 
road,  and  she  was  no  more  seen. 

These  little  sketches  will  illustrate  the  difference  I  wish  to  describe 
between  the  woman  who  thinks  she  can  ride,  and  who  causes  men  to 
inveigh  against  the  presence  of  the  fair  sex  in  the  hunting  field,  and 
she  who  says  little  on  the  subject,  and  who  yet  wins  admiration  for 
her  good  riding,  and  with  whom  no  fault  can  be  found.  If  all  my 
fair  friends  would  take  example  by  this  latter  portrait,  those  whose 
ambition  it  is  to  ride  hunting  would  be  hailed  as  an  attraction  in  the 
field  by  their  male  friends,  instead  of  being  looked  upon  as  out  of 
place,  which  I  am  afraid  is  often  the  case  now. 

It  is  bad  enough  to  find  a  man  who  endeavours  to  follow  hounds 
but  cannot  ride,  and  who  does  his  best  to  prevent  other  people  by- 
crossing  them  at  fences,  only  to  perform  a  "  voluntary ; "  but  to  come 
across  a  woman  who  continually  "  hangs  fire  "  at  obstructions  is  a 
thousand  times  worse.  With  regard  to  the  horse  upon  which  a  woman 
ought  to  learn  to  ride  a  few  words  may  be  added.  An  old  hunter  or 
a  charger  is  undoubtedly  the  best  My  own  inclination  would  lead 
me  to  advise  the  former,  as  a  pupil  is  likely  to  learn  more  quickly  on 
such  an  animal ;  but  for  a  very  timid  person  the  charger  might  be 
preferable,  for  he  has  been  so  highly  trained,  and  his  spirit  kept  so 
completely  within  bounds,  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  the  most 
nervous  of  riders  to  feel  any  fear  when  mounted. 

My  First  Duck. 


MRfiS'Y  first  duck!  On  second  thoughts  I  rather  doubt 
:  Jl  whether  I  am  justified  in  prefixing  the  possessive 
pronoun  "my"  to  that  duck;  still,  since  Mrs.  Glass 
.  calls  it  "your"  hare,  while  still  recommending  you 
to  catch  the  same,  perhaps  I  may  be  allowed  the  same  literal  licence. 
Let  me  say  at  once  that  nobody  else  claimed  the  bird — in  fact, 
nobody  else  shot  at  it,  and  it  fell  dead  almost  at  my  feet ;  but,  alas ! 
it  never  quite  came  to  hand.  Circumstances  over  which  I  had  no 
control  prevented  my  adding  that  ill-fated  bird  to  the  "Birds  of  the 
British  Isles"  which  (tailing  victims,  as  the  first  fruits  of  their  species, 
to  my  youthful  aim)  have  been  immortalised  by  our  local  taxidermist. 

What  these  circumstances  were  I  must  go  on  to  relate.  Time  and 
tide  are  said  to  wait  for  no  roan,  and  one  of  these  impartial  forces 
had  something  to  do  with  the  fate  of  my  hero. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of (never  mind  how  many  years  ago),  that 

I  received  an  invitation  to  spend  the  latter  part  of  my  holidays  with  a 
jolly  old  uncle  in  Cardiganshire.  He  owned  a  large  estate  of  bog  and 
hill,  with  an  unprofitable  suspicion  of  lead  permeating  the  latter,  while 
the  former  abutted  for  a  mile  or  so  on  the  estuary  of  the  River  Dovey. 
I  was  to  bring  my  gun,  as  I  was  promised  plenty  of  wild  shooting, 
under  the  special  guidance'  of  a  certain  "  character"  known  to  me 
long  before  only  by  the  mm  de  chassc  of  "  The  Little  Tailor." 

Need  I  say  how  eagerly  I  accepted  my  uncle's  invitation,  and 
prepared  my  very  slender  shooting  "  kit  "  for  the  campaign  ?  I  was  a 
long,  keen,  gun-bitten  school  boy,  painfully  self-conscious  of  my  stick- 
ups  and  incipient  whisker,  when  the  Shrewsbury  and  Aberystwith 
coach  deposited  me  at  the  cross-road  which  led  to  my  uncle's  house. 
There  he  was,  waiting  for  me,  looking  ruddy  and  jovial  as  ever,  and 
with  him  a  short,  bandy-legged,  blear-eyed  man,  [dressed  in  seedy 
black  velveteen,  and  connected  with  a  hand  barrow  for  my  luggage, 
to  whom  I  was  shortly  introduced  as  being  "  The  Little  Tailor,"  of 
whose  sayings  and  doings  I  had  heard  so  many  racy  anecdotes.  By 
profession  this  queer  little  fellow  was,  as  his  nickname  inferred,  a 
tailor ;  I  believe  when  things  sporting  were  slack  he  crossed  his  legs 
and  condescended  to  ameliorate  the  rags  and  tatters  of  the  hamlet 

200  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

where  he  resided ;  but  during  some  nine  months  in  the  year  he  hung 
about  my  uncle's  back  premises,  providing  by  hook  or  by  crook  fish 
and  fowl  for  "the  master's"  larder,  always  ready  and  eager  at  a 
moment's  notice  to  take  the  field  with  his  master  or  his  guests,  and 
lead  them  right  up  to  whatever  game  there  was  to  be  shot  at  on  the 
estate,  or,  for  that  matter,  over  the  border  either.  Suffering  as  the 
unfortunate  man  did  from  an  incurable  mania  for  destroying  and  appro- 
priating the  wild  denizens  of  the  bog  or  hill — to  wit,  the  game  thereof — 
my  uncle  wisely  determined  that  he  should  do  so  as  his  keeper,  and, 
by  an  irregular  wage  and  more  regular  interviews  with  the  butler,  he 
kept  on  good  terms  with  him,  though  his  patience  was  frequently  tried 
to  the  utmost  by  the  tailor's  drinking  propensities,  which,  when  the  fit 
came  on  him,  sent  him  back  after  a  three  or  four  days'  absence  with 
the  fishiest  of  eyes  and  a  glowing  nose  that  you  could  almost  light 
your  pipe  at  His  tobacco,  like  his  liquors,  he  preferred  neat — an 
inexhaustible  quid  bulged  out  his  left  cheek  from  morning  jto  night 
He  spoke  English  in  a  fair  but  original  style,  occasionally  introducing 
sesquipedalia  verba  picked  up  from  the  newspapers,  which  he  under- 
stood as  little  as  he  was  proud  of  them.  He  was  full  of  anecdotes, 
and  his  tongue  was  seldom  quiet,  but  he  was  always  respectful  and 
"  know'd  "  his  place.  Such  was  my  companion  zti&fidus  Achates  for 
the  next  six  weeks.  And  what  a  glorious  time  we  had  of  it !  Oh 
for  the  joys  of  a  tramp  over  a  rough  wild  beat,  with  its  mixed  bag, 
and  no  unpleasant  suggestions  as  to  your  non-possession  of  a  game- 
licence  ;  no  would-be-sharp  watchers  to  inquire  "  yer  bizness  a  tres- 
passin',"  if  perchance  you  follow  a  wild  covey  a  few  fields  beyond 
your  bounds.  Ah  ! — come,  I'm  off  the  line.  Whip  me  back  to  that 
duck  and  ducking  of  mine  which  I  sat  down  to  write  about. 

The  yarns  "  The  Little  Tailor  "  was  wont  to  spin  to  me  about  his 
"  doughty  deeds  "  amongst  the  wild  fowl  in  winter  time,  with  a  certain 
long-barrelled  ramshackle  rusty  gun,  which  was  slung  to  the  rafters  of 
his  cottage,  made  me  as  keen  as  mustard  to  have  an  innings  at  the 
same  kind  of  game. 


"  When  would  the  ducks  begin  to  show  ?"  I  asked.  "  Oh !  for  the 
matter  of  that  there  was  ever  a  few  dooks  aboot ;  but  in  a  week  or 
two,  about  the  end  of  October,  if  I  could  get  out  along  with  him  by 
nights  he  would  expose  to  me  a  grand  shoot  But  I  must  be  sure  to 
borrow  the  master's  long  gun."  "  What  gun  ?"  I  asked.  "  Oh,  the 
master's  got  a  beautiful  gun  within,  what  he  bought  last  year ;  she 
will  throw  five  loads  of  shot  quite  easy,  and  kill  most  any  distance. 
He  lended  her  to  me  once  last  winter,  and  I  had  a  misfortune  wid 
her ;  the  nose  of  her  got  chocked  up  with  snow  as  I  pushed  her  over 

My  First  Duck.  201 

the  say-wall,  and  when  I  fired  she  split'  for  more  than  a  foot  down 
the  barrel.  The  master  was  mighty  vexed  about  it ;  I  dursn't  meet 
him  for  a  long  whiles,  but  the  mistress  said  a  soft  word  for  poor 
Morgan  the  tailor,  and  the  smith  took  off  the  bursted  part,  and  I 
expect  she  will  shoot  as  good  as  ever.  You  will  have  to  get  her  from 
the  master  if  you  want  to  get  a  dook." 

Need  I  say  that  within  a  very  few  hours  I  made  a  diligent  inquiry 
of  my  uncle  concerning  the  above  abbreviated  duck-gun,  and  was 
introduced  to  her  ladyship,  where,  with  certain  mixed  company,  she 
was  reclining  in  a  darkish  corner  of  my  uncle's  sanctum  ?  Her  high 
and  mighty  muzzle  towered  above  the  motley  herd  of  rods,  walking- 
sticks,  &c,  amid  which  she  was  reposing,  even  as  the  axe  of  the 
lictor  lorded  it  over  the  surrounding  fasces.  On  a  large  scale,  in  truth, 
was  this  "  little  love  "  of  my  sporting  uncle.  Not  far  short  of  twenty 
pounds  in  weight,  and,  goodness  knows  how  many  inches  of  barrel 
(minus  the  amputated  part),  she  might  possibly  come  fairly  "up  to  the 
shoulder  of  a  tall  powerful  man,  but  it  required  a  mighty  muscular 
effort  and  elongation  of  the  arms,  and  generally  staggery  attitude, 
before  I  could  secure  a  momentary  squint  down  the  barrel,  and  then 
I  was  nothing  loth  to  "ground  arms  "  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  However, 
nothing  daunted  by  her  ladyship's  monstrous  proportions,  I  formally 
proposed  for  her  trigger,  and  permission  was  given  me  to  "  go  in  and 
win,"  if  I  could,  with  an  amusing  caution  not  to  imitate  her  former 
suitor's — the  tailor's — behaviour,  by  unnecessarily  blowing  her  up. 

Not  many  days  elapsed  before  I  had  an  opportunity  of  bringing 
matters  to  an  issue.  "  The  Little  Tailor  "  and  I  were  returning  home 
on  a  gusty,  wild  afternoon,  after  a  weary  but  not  unsuccessful  tramp, 
when  we  made  out  sundry  dusky  patches  floating  with  the  tide  up  the 
Dovey,  which  the  keen  sight  of  my  companion  pronounced  to  be 
"  dooks  an'  widgins."  With  a  view  to  reclaim  certain  land  from  the 
ravages  of  high  tides,  my  uncle  had  erected,  here  and  there,  low 
stone  and  stake  embankments  and  walls,  which  ran  down  to  low 
water  mark.  These  sea-walls  were  a  great  help  to  "  The  Little  Tailor  " 
in  covering  his  stealthy  advance  on  the  "  dook  "  of  the  period,  as  he 
floated  up  on  the  tide,  or  vegetated  on  the  mud  banks.  On  the 
present  occasion  he  thought  that  if  I  was  artful  enough  to  creep  down 
to  the  end  of  one  of  these  said  walls  I  should  probably  get  a  shot. 
But  then,  my  little  fourteen-bore  single  was  such  a  poor  tool  to  go  into 
action  with !  Happy  thought !  Now  will  be  the  time  to  try  my 
uncle's  young  cannon;  we  were  close  home,  so  I  packed  the  tailor 
off  post  haste  to  fetch  "  her."  Oh  1  shades  of  impatience  !  What  a 
time  the  little  beggar  was  gone !    In  an  ocular  point  of  view  I  was 

<202  The  Gentletnatis  Magazine. 

straining  at  the  leash  like  a  greyhound  who  has  sighted  his  hare.  The 
ducks  kept  coming  in  closer  and  closer  to  the  shore.  From  where  I 
stood  they  seemed  to  be  hardly  twenty  yards  from  the  end  of  one  of 
the  walls.  I  was  inwardly  confounding  my  messenger,  morally  con- 
vinced that  he  was  sipping  beer  in  the  servants'  hall,  and  about  to 
slip  down  to  the  river  and  try  my  luck  with  my  own  little  gun,  when 
the  object  of  my  objurgations  appeared  at  the  "double,"  trailing  the 
great  gun,  and  panting  and  perspiring  as  if  he  had  been  racing  all  the 
way,  instead  of  from  the  first  corner  only. 

We  had  some  difficulty  in  loading.  The  weapon  was  not  only 
heavy  in  hand,  but  such  a  great  "  bore,"  that,  having  no  proper 
wadding,  we  had  to  administer  an  alarming  "  bolus  "  of  paper  to  bring 
her  up  to  the  mark  (about  two  and  a  half  hands  on  the  ramrod,  so 
said  the  tailor),  and  no  cap  could  fit  her  properly ;  however,  at  last 
I  was  off  with  her  in  my  arms,  and  with  stealthy  stride  and  humped 
back  I  gained  the  shelter  of  the  wall  without  attracting  the  attention 
of  my  quarry.  Now  for  a  moment's  rest  and  a  change  of  hands  for 
the  gun.  Didn't  my  arm  ache,  that's  all  ?  and  wasn't  I  puffing  and 
blowing  Kke  a  young  grampus  ?  It  was  a  mercy  the  ducks  didn't 
hear  me.  However,. I  shut  off  steam  as  well  as  I  could,  and  paddled 
down  the  soft,  muddy  ditch  behind  the  wall  as  noiselessly  as  I  could, 
for  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  when  I  thought  I  would  take  stock  of  the 
relative  positions  of  the  ducks  and  myself.  So  I  doffed  my  hat,  and 
clambering  up  the  green,  slimy  stones,  peeped  over  the  wall.  -I  do 
not  think  that  I  shall  ever  forget  the  scene  before  me  :  a  wild  stormy 
sunset  in  the  western  background,  with  every  symptom  of  a  dirty 
night  brewing  in  the  offing ;  a  stiff  breeze  hissed  through  the  coping 
stones  of  the  wall  charged  with  the  many  flavours  of  the  sea,  and 
occasionally  whisked  a  splash  of  salt  spray  into  my  face;  the  air 
was  full  of  weird  cries  of  wild  sea  birds,  discoursing  sweet  music  to  a 
sportsman's  ear ;  the  lap-lapping  of  the  tide  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wall  seemed  to  keep  time  with  the  thumping  of  my  heart.  Three 
curlew,  taken  for  once  in  their  lives  off  their  guard,  flapped  lazily 
past  within  a  few  yards  of  me.  Happily  for  my  chance  at  the  ducks, 
I  had  left  the  gun  at  the  foot  of  the  wall  or  I  do  not  think  I  could 
have  resisted  the  temptation  to  give  them  a  salute.  But,  oh  !  cul- 
mination of  excitement !  there  was  a  big  patch  of  ducks  dancing  on 
the  waves,  well  within  range  of  the  wall,  about  150  yards  farther 
down.  I  slipped  back  into  the  ditch  in  no  time,  seized  the  big 
gun,  and,  grovelling  down  under  the  shelter  of  the  wall,  crept  along 
till  I  thought  I  was  about  opposite  them.  Another  shin-grazing 
cKmb  and  a  peep,  with  the  mortifying  result  of  finding  the  ducks  had 

My  First  Duck.  203 

moved  a  good  .bit  farther  down.  Back  again  into  the  ditch,  and 
another  exhausting  stalk.  I  am  by  this  time  almost  at  the  end  of 
the  wall,  and  the  tide  is  swirling  up  past  me  and  creeping  round 
behind  me.  I  calculate  that  there  must  be  three  or  four  feet  of  water 
on  -the  other  side  of  the  wall,  and  deepening  every  minute.  And 
now,  with  cocked  gun,  and  all  in  a  tremble  with  excitement,  I  make 
my  last  scramble  up  the  wall,  secure  as  firm  a  footing  as  I  can,  poke 
the  muzzle  of  the  gun  over  the  coping-stones,  my  foot  slips  a  little, 
the  gun  barrel  grates  against  the  stones,  and  in  a  moment  up  rise  the 
ducks  with  fifty  quacking  power,  and  the  whole  sky  is  alive  with 
winged  fowl,  informing  all  whom  it  may  concern  with  their  discordant 
and  reproachful  cries  that'  "  There  he  is,  the  sneak  !  Behind  the  wall ! 
There  he  is  !  There  he  is  !"  The  ducks  wheel  back  overhead  ;  with 
a  mighty  effort  I  hoist  the  big  gun  up  to  my  shoulder,  and  blaze  into 
the  brown  of  them.  Ye  Gods !  what  a  kick  my  shoulder  got,  and 
how  I  napped  it  on  the  right  cheek  bone !  But  little  I  recked  of 
that,  for  didn't  a  great  quacker  come  flop  down  into  the  water  quite 
close  to  me  !  Yes,  but  how  am  I  to  secure  the  same  ?  Hooray  !  the 
tide  is  floating  it  up  right  towards  me.  Slowly  and  surely  that  noble 
bird,  with  its  red  webbed  feet  turned  up  to  the  sky,  sailed  up  to  me, 
but  no  nearer  than  some  three  or  four  feet  would  it  come.  Horror  ! 
the  tide  is  taking  it  past  me.  Oh  for  a  retriever,  or  fishing  rod,  or 
anything  !  Happy  thought !  perhaps  I  can  reach  it  with  the  muzzle 
of  the  gun.  I  make  a  wild,  despairing  poke  with  the  same  in  the 
•direction  of  the  bird.  The  laws  of  gravity  are  upset — in  plain  words 
I  lose  my  bajance,  and  before  I  can  say  "  Jack  Robinson  "  I  am  over 
head  and  ears  in  some  unknown  depth  of  water.  Need  I  say  that 
the  instinct  of  self-preservation  being  omnipotent,  I  instantly  sur- 
rendered the  gun  to  Father  Neptune,  as  a  tribute  for  trespassing  on 
his  domains,  and  rose,  not  a  little  frightened,  and  sputtering  and 
gesticulating  a  good  deal,  to  the  surface,  and  with  a  stroke  and  a 
kick  or  two  reached  the  wall,  and  clambered  on  to  it  once  more  ? 

I  could  almost  have  cried  for  very  vexation;  not  a  vestige  of 
the  duck  to  be  seen,  nor  of  my  uncle's  gun  either.  What  on  earth 
was  I  to  do  ?  There  would  be  an  awful  blow  up  about  it  when 
I  got  home.  The  water  was  too  muddy  to  see  anything  of  it; 
besides  it  was  getting  dark,  and  the  tide  was  rising  fast— in  fact,  I  had 
to  clamber  along  the  top  of  the  wall,  to  high  water  mark,  to  avoid  a 
second  involuntary  bath. 

"The  Little  Tailor"  was  fearfully  excited  when  I  related  my  mis- 
fortunes. He  had  a  lively  reminiscence  of  the  master's  words  to  him 
after  his  little  exploit  with  the  gun,  and  did  not  prognosticate  a  very 

204  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

happy  interview  between  me  and  my  relation  when  I  should  come 
to  relate  my  sad  story  to  him — in  fact,  if  I  remember  well,  a  hundred 
pounds  was  the  fancy  figure  at  which  he  valued  his  non-participation 
in  the  present  catastrophe.  We  held  a  consultation  about  it,  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that,  as  there  was  some  probability  of  re- 
covering the  gun  at  low  tide,  it  would  be  as  well,  perhaps,  to  avoid 
raising  the  avuncular  wrath  that  evening  by  saying  nothing  about  h. 
I  pointed  out  exactly  where  I  had  fallen  in,  and  "  The  Little  Tailor" 
promised  to  .be  up  at  "  grey  dawn "  next  morning,  and  narrowly 
inspect  the  "flotsam"  and  "jetsam"  about  the  spot,  and  see 
what  he  could  do  to  recover  the  lost  property.  And  so  we  parted 
on  that  disastrous  evening. 

I  am  sorry  to  have  to  confess  that  I  had  to  "  draw  the  long  bow" 
to  account  jpr  my  wet  clothes  and  late  appearance  at  the  dinner 
table,  and  very  trying  were  the  frequent  remarks  as  to  the  "absence" 
displayed  in  my  demeanour,  and  general  falling  off  from  my  usual  flqw 
of  spirits.  Happily  no  awkward  questions  were  put  about  the  gun-V- 
in  fact,  I  do  not  think  my  uncle  knew  anything  about  its  having  left 
the  security  of  his  library.  I  will  draw  a  veil  over  the  horrors  of\ 
the  night  which  followed  that  uncomfortable  evening,  of  the  fearful 
dreams  of  a  jury  of  ducks  finding  me  "  guilty"  and  sentencing  me 
to  be  secured  by  the  neck  to  the  big  gun  and  drowned  in  "  full 
fathom  five."  I  couldn't  sleep  after  the  first  streak  of  dawn  appeared, 
so  slipped  on  my  clothes  and  sneaked  down  to  the  kitchen  with  the 
wariness  of  a  burglar,  and  out  of  the  back  door  off  to  the  scene  of 
my  last  evening's  performance.  Oh !  what  a  relief  it  was  to  meet 
"  The  Little  Tailor  "  marching  home  with  the  lost  piece  of  ordnance, 
none  the  worse,  beyond  a  little  mud  and  rust,  for  its  night's  pickling 
in  the  briny.  In  a  secure  outhouse  we  cleaned  her  ladyship  up,. 
much  sand,  oil,  and  tow  being  expended  on  her  toilet,  and  watching 
my  uncle  safe  out  of  the  way  I  smuggled  her  back  to  her  old  berth 
in  his  "  sanctum,"  which  I  believe  she  occupies  to  this  day. 

Many  years  elapsed  before  I  told  "the  master"  of  his  gun's  second 
adventure,  when  he,  good-humouredly,  seemed  to  think  (but  then 
distance  lends,  &c.,)  that  the  recovery  of  his  gun  was  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  hard  lines  of  losing  my  first  duck,  and  ducking. 

cleaveland:  royalist,  wlt,  • 

and  Poet. 


T  the  commencement  of  the  seventeenth  century  Lough- 
borough was  one  of  the  quaintest  of  Midland  towns. 
Situate  on  the  top  of  a  knoll  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
sleepy  River  Soar,  with  rich  slopes  of  intervening 
meadow  land,  silted  up  by  the  river  in  earlier  times,  and  a  long  range 
of  high-arched  bridges  to  carry  its  main  turnpike  safely  over  the  flats 
during  the  regular  floods,  the  town  was  still  true  to  its  old  name — 
"The- place  by  the  lake."  Behind  it  rose  up  the  unenclosed  wooded 
heights  of  the  Charnwood  Hills,  where  William  the  Conqueror 
declined  Jo  hunt  because  he  declined  to  break  his  neck,  and  wild 
game  abounded,  and  foresters  held  their  yearly  open  courts  at  the 
coped  oak,  perpetuating  their  old  Saxon  customs.  The  town  within 
was  quaintness  itself.  Thatched  houses,  narrow  streets,  a  market, 
and  a  market-cross ;  wine  and  ale  houses,  with  their  devices  painted 
over  the  doors;  and  members  of  the  guild  of  carpenters  and  other 
trade  associations  moving  about,  not  too  anxiously,  or  peeping  out  of 
their  shops ;  now  and  then  a  long  string  of  pack-horses  passing 
through  the  street  with  corn  or  salt,  or  a  lumbering  waggon  jolting 
along  on  its  way  to  Leicester  or  to  Nottingham,  or  possibly  London 
or  York ;  or  rubicund  yeomen  crowding  in,  with  their  white-aproned 
wives  and  daughters;  or  a  wayside  minstrel,  singing  his  songs  or 
playing  his  conjuring  tricks ;  or  an  irruption  of  boys  from  the  high- 
gabled  Grammar  School  by  the  church,  which  had  sent  many  a  poor 
scholar  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge ;  or  a  grand  peal  from  the  noble  old 
tower  of  the  church  itself,  which  stood  out  in  the  surrounding  land- 
scape, bold  and  ubiquitous, — all  these  made  it  quite  a  curiosity  to 
neighbouring  villagers  not  less  than  to  passing  travellers  or  beggars, 
sure  of  a  night's  rest  in  a  farmstead,  and  a  few  pence  from  the 
dispensers  of  the  various  local  charities. 

Our  business,  however,  i^  with  the  Grammar  School.  It  was  a 
plain  building,  but  it  gave  a  free  and  substantial  education  to  all  the 
youths  of  the  town,  and  it  had  a  remarkable  history.  One  Thomas 
Burton,  a  native  and  a  merchant  of  the  staple,  had  left  lands  in  the 

206  The  Gentletnaris  Magazine. 

fifteenth  century  for  pious  purposes,  which  had  subsequently  been 
diverted  and  devoted  to  a  free  school,  the  payment  of  town  taxes, 
and  the  support  of  the  poor.  The  school  itself  dated  from  June  28, 
1 569,  and  its  rules  show  that  education  was  once  a  serious  business. 
The  school-doors  were  to  be  opened  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning 
from  Lady-day  to  Michaelmas,  and  at  seven  from  Michaelmas  to 
Lady-day.  One  hour  was  allowed  for  breakfast,  and  two  hours — 
from  eleven  till  one — for  dinner.  It  was  the  duty  of  the  master  and 
his  assistants  to  teach  the  boys  "  to  read  in  psalter  or  testament," 
to  teach  them  "writing  and  accounts,  sufficient  for  being  put  to 
apprenticeship,"  and  "to  instruct  youths  in  classical  learning,  begin- 
ning with  ye  grammar,  untill  fit  for  ye  Universitie."  Many  famous 
men  have  been  educated  in  this  school,  including  Dr.  Pulteney,  the 
botanist,  and  Bishop  Davys,  of  Peterborough,  who  acted  as  tutor  to 
Her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria. 

At  the  date  I  have  mentioned  the  schoolmaster  was  Mr.  George 
Dawson,  a  scholar  unknown  to  fame,  and  his  assistant  was  Thomas 
Cleaveland,  M.A.,  father  of  a  more  famous  son,  in  the  person  of  John 
Cleaveland,  orator,  wit,  royalist,  and  poet.  There  has  ahrays  been 
some  doubt  as  to  the  position  occupied  by  Cleaveland,  and  as  to 
whether  his  son  was  born  at  Loughborough  or  at  Hinckley,  whither 
the  father  subsequently  removed  ;  but  I  am  able  to  settle  both  points 
by  the  very  best  evidence.  An  examination  of  the  accounts  of  the 
bridge-master,  who  was  the  financial  officer  of  Burton's  charity,  shows 
that  Thomas  Cleaveland  was  an  usher  in  the  Grammar  School, 
possibly  acting  as  curate  to  the  Rev.  John  Brown,  the  rector  of  the  • 
parish,  at  the  same  time.  His  salary  was  small,  as  appears  by  the 
following  entry,  which  occurs  first  in  161 1,  and  every  year  subse- 
quently until  his  removal  to  Hinckley  : — 

"  Item,  paid  to  Mr.  Cleaveland  (usher),  Simon  Mudd's  legacye, 
due  as  before  (i.e.  half  yearly),  XLs." 

Four  pounds  a  year  could  hardly  have  been  the  whole  of  his 
salary,  but  as  the  schoolmaster  himself  only  received  ^12  13s.  6d.  a 
year,  and  could  not  hold  other  preferment — though  he  acted  as  clerk 
in  the  town,  keeping  the  public  accounts,  and  writing  out  the  parish 
register — I  assume  that  Cleaveland  supplemented  his  wretched 
salary  in  one  way  or  another.  Coin  had  been  debased  between  1543 
and  1560,  so  that  in  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century  the 
shilling  contained  but  ninety-three  grains  of  silver,  and  wheat  had 
risen  to  38s.  6ti.  per  quarter.  Under  these  circumstances,  no  man 
could  be  "  passing  rich  "  upon  four  pounds  a  year.  Four  children 
were  born  to  the  Rev.  Thomas  Cleaveland,  as  the  register  styles  him, 

Cleaveland,  Royalist,  Wit,  and  Poet.  207 

during  his  residence  in  the  town  :  "  Mary  Cleaveland  " — I  copy  the 
old  spelling — was  baptised  October  17,  and  buried  October  19,  161 1 ; 
John,  the  poet,  was  baptised  June  17,  1613;  Margaret,  August  27, 
1 61 5  ;  and  Joseph,  of  whom  we  subsequently  hear  nothing,  June  14, 
1620.  In  1621  Cleaveland  obtained  the  living  of  Hinckley.  He  at 
once  placed  his  son  John  under  the  care  of  Richard  Vines,  the  head 
master  of  the  Hinckley  Grammar  School,  who,  curiously  enough,  was 
as  ardent  a  Puritan  as  his  pupil  became  a  Royalist.  The  future 
poet  was  so  forward  a  scholar  that  he  entered  Christ  Church  College, 
Cambridge,  in  his  fifteenth  year — that  is,  in  1628.  When  eighteen 
he  became  B.A.,  at  twenty-one  he  was  elected  fellow  of  St.  John's, 
and  at  twenty-two  he  became  M.  A.  Thus,  as  a  quaint  writer  remarks, 
"  To  cherish  so  great  hopes,  the  Lady  Margaret  drew  forth  both  her 
breasts.  Christ  College  gave  him  admission,  and  St.  John's  a  fellow- 
ship. There  he  lived  about  nine  years,  the  delight  and  ornament  of 
that  society.  What  service  as  well  as  reputation  he  did  it,  let  his 
orations  and  epistles  speak  ;  to  which  the  library  oweth  much  of  its 
learning,  the  chapel  much  of  its  pious  decency,  and  the  college  much 
of  its  renown." 

During  Cleaveland's  residence  in  Cambridge  he  was  much  moved 
by  two  incidents,  which  may  be  said  to  have  determined  his  whole 
future  career.  The  first  incident  was  a  royal  visit.  Charies  I.  reached 
Cambridge  in  May,  1633,  accompanied  by  Laud,  Bishop  of  London, 
on  his  way  to  Scotland  to  cure  Presbyterianism,  "  the  loud  rustle  of 
him,"  as  Carlyle  says,  "  disturbing  for  a  day  the  summer  husbandries 
and  operations  of  mankind. "  In  his  capacity  of  orator,  Cleaveland 
wrote  an  epistle  on  the  event,  which  is  preserved  in  his  works,  and 
may  be  cited  as  a  fair  specimen  of  his  Latinity.  The  following 
extract  may  suffice  to  justify  Fuller's  criticism  that  he  was  a  "  pure 
Latinist " : — 

Caesaris  Epilogus  fuit  Prologue  Caroli,  neque  enim  optior  Stella,  quam  Invic- 
tissima  illius  Herois  Anima,  quae  vestrae  soboli  res  gerendas  ominaretur.  Stellam 
dixi  ?  Muto  factum ;  crederem  potius  ipsum  Solem  fuisse,  qui  tunc  temporis 
tibi  relimavit  moderamen  Diei,  et  ut  Principis  cunas  fortius  videret,  suum  in 
Stellam  contraxit  oculum.  Ecce  ut  patrissat  Carolus !  Ut  ad  vestras  Virtutes 
anhelus  surgit !  Quod  sub  pientissimo  Rege  accidisse  legimus  Solem  multis 
gradibus  retro  ferri,  Principis  aetis  pari  portento  compensavit  damnum,  cujus 
festina  virtus  devorat  Horologium,  et  Pueritia*  nondum  libati  meridiem  attigit. 
.  .  .  O  faelicem  interim  Academiam,  et  jEternititatem  quandam  nactam !  quae  in 
Rege  et  Principe,  et  esse  nostrum,  et  nostrum  fore  simul  complectitur.  Non  est  quod 
plura  expectentur  saecula  ;  yiximus  et  nostram  et  posterorum  vitam.  Sed  vereor 
ne  molestus  fuerim  importuno  officio,  quod  in  tarn  illustri  praesentia  in  nescio  quid 
magus  piaculo  excrescit.  Minima  coram  Rege  Errata,  tanquam  angustiores 
rimae,  extendmrtnr  famine.    Oratio  itaque  nostra  pro  genio  temporum  ref ormabitur, 

2o8  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

vel,  quod  tantundem  est,  rescindetur.  Hoc  unicum  praefabor  votum;  Vivas 
Augustissime,  »Pietas  tuorum  et  Tremor  Hostium.  Vivas  denique  earn  indutus 
gloriam,  ut  Filium  tuum  Carolum  appellemus  Maximum,  quia  solo  Patre 

As  might  be  expected,  the  King  was  highly  delighted,  and  sum- 
moned Cleaveland  to  his  presence,  gave  him  his  hand  to  kiss,  and 
offered  him  other  expressions  of  grace  and  kindness.  A  copy  of  the 
letter  was  sent  by  command  to  the  King  at  Huntingdon,  and  Cleave- 
land was  henceforth,  whatever  he  might  have  been  previously, 
an  enthusiastic  and  devoted  Royalist.  The  second  incident  was 
Oliver  Cromwell's  election  as  M.P.  for  Cambridge  in  1640,  "recom- 
mended by  Hampden,  say  some ;  not  needing  any  recommendation 
in  those  fen  counties,  think  others,"  as  Carlyle  puts  the  matter. 
Cambridge  was  a  Parliamentary  hot-bed,  but  Cleaveland  worked  hard 
against  Cromwell,  whom  he  detested  and  privately  designated  as 
"  a  screech-owl" — in  those  days  choice  epithets  were  rare ;  and  fore- 
seeing disaster,  as  the  result  of  his  futile  opposition,  he  turned  upon 
the  town  and  said,  "That  single  vote  had  ruined  both  Church  and 
kingdom."  Cambridge  soon  became  an  important  garrison  town ; 
but  before  this  and  other  serious  indications  of  the  direction  of  afiairs 
occurred,  Cleaveland  found  that  he  had  raised  a  storm  about  his  ears. 
"  Perceiving  the  ostracism  that  was  intended,"  says  one  writer,  "  he 
became  a  volunteer  in  his  academic  exile,  and  would  no  longer 
breathe  the  common  air  with  such  pests  of  mankind."  Another 
writer  states  that  he  lost  his  fellowship  by  reason  of  his  outrageous 
royalism.  He  doffed  his  cap  and  gown,  and  proceeded  to  the  King's 
camp  at  Oxford,  where  he  was  well  received,  and  indeed  he  deserved 
to  be,  being  a  martyr  to  his  King.  He  had  been  the  first  to  appear 
in  verse  on  the  King's  side,  and  probably  the  poem  thus  honoured 
was  the  one  on  "  The  King's  Return  "  : — 

Return'd  ;  I'll  ne'er  believ't ;  first  prove  him  hence — 
Kings  travel  by  their  beams  and  influence. 
Who  says  the  soul  gives  out  her  Gests,  or  goes 
A  flitting  progress  'twixt  the  head  and  toes  ? 
She  rules  by  omnipresence ;  and  shall  we 
Deny  a  Prince  the  same  ubiquity  ? 

But  the  foundation  of  his  reputation  in  the  camp  was  "  The  Rebel 
Scot,"  one  of  the  bitterest  of  his  satires,  to  be  noticed  anon.  Cleave- 
land, however,  was  not  a  warrior,  he  was  only  a  wit,  though  the  point 
of  his  pen  did  more  mischief  than  the  pike  of  a  Puritan.  The  Parlia- 
mentarians never  forgave  him  his  attacks,  and  the  Cavaliers  never 
forgot  his  verses.    The  first  opening  that  came  was  given  him  by 

Cleav eland,  Royalist \  Wit>  and  Poet.  209 

Charles — it  was  the  Judge-Advocateship  of  the  garrison  at  Newark, 
in  Nottinghamshire,  under  Sir  R.  Wills,  Governor  of  the  places 
Here  he  remained  until  its  surrender  in  1646,  employing  his  wit  and 
his  verse  in  various  ways.  He  kept  the  garrison  in  good  heart  in 
spite  of  frequent  sieges.  His  reply  to  the  summons -of  surrender  is 
fortunately  preserved,  and  it  displays  the  full-blooded  sincerity  of  his 
royalism.  He  wrote — "  I  am  neither  to  be  stroak'd  into  apostacy  by 
the  mention  of  fair  conditions  in  a  misty  notion ;  nor  to  be  scared 
into  dishonour  by  your  running  derision  on  the  fate  of  Chester.  .  .  . 
Whereas  you  urge  the  expense  of  the  siege,  and  the  pressure  of  the 
country  in  supporting  your  charge — there  I  confess  I  am  touched  to 
the  quick.  But  their  miseries,  though  they  make  my  heart  bleed, 
must  not  make  my  honour.  My  compassion  to  my  country  must 
not  make  me  a  parricide  to  my  Prince.  Yet,  in  order  to  their  ease, 
if  you  will  grant  me  a  pass  for  some  gentlemen  to  go  to  Oxford,  that 
I  may  know  His  Majesty's  pleasure,  whether,  according  to  his  letter, 
he  will  wind  up  the  business  in  general,  or  leave  every  commander  to 
steer  his  own  course ;  then  I  shall  know  what  to  determine.  Other- 
wise, I  desire  you  to  take  notice,  that  when  I  received  my  com- 
mission for  the  government  of  this  place,  I  annexed  my  life  as  a 
label  to  my  trust." 

Whilst  at  Newark,  an  amusing  correspondence  took  place  between 
Cleaveland  and  a  Parliamentary  officer  who  signs  himself  W.  E.,  but 
whose  real  name  I  have  been  unable  to  discover.  The  servant  of 
this  officer,  Hill  by  name,  decamped  to  Newark,  with  ^138  os.  8d  of 
his  master's  money.  W.  E.  wrote  to  Cleaveland — "Give  the  fellow  his 
just  reward  :  prefer  him,  or  send  him  hither,  and  we  shall,  if  you  dare 
not  trust  him,  let  him  be  trussed ;  if  you  dare,  I  shall  wish  you  more 
such  servants."  Cleaveland's  reply  is  very  caustic  :  "  Did  not  Demas 
leave  Paul  ?  Did  not  Onesimus  run  from  his  master  Philemon  ?  .  .  . 
You  say  that  your  man  is  entered  our  ark ;  I  am  sorry  you  were  so 
ignorant  in  Scripture  as  to  let  him  come  single.  .  .  .  Reflect  but 
upon  yourself,  how  you  have  used  our  Common  Master,  and  I  doubt 
not  but  you  will  pardon  your  man.  He  hath  but  transcribed  rebellion, 
and  copied  out  that  disloyalty  in  short-hand  which  you  have 
committed  in  text."  W.  E.  laments  that  so  much  wit  should  be 
wasted  upon  him,  whereupon  replies  Cleaveland,  "  My  wit  shall  be  on 
what  side  heaven  you  please,  provided  it  ever  be  antarctick  to  yours." 
Though  Cleaveland  had  the  better  of  this  combat,  he  was  sorely 
worsted  in  another.  After  Newark  surrendered  he  made  another 
effort  to  join  himself  to  the  King.  He  was  taken  prisoner  by  a  body 
of  Scottish  troopers  under  David  Lesley,  afterwards  Lord  Newark, 

2 1  o  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

who  may  or  may  not  have  suspected  the  real  character  of  his  prisoner. 
Cleaveland  was  threatened  with  the  gallows,  numerous  papers  being 
found  upon  him.  He  was  brought  before  Lesley,  and  his  papers 
were  examined.  They  proved  to  be  only  a  bundle  of  verses.  "  Is 
this  all  ye  have  to  charge  him  with?"  asked  Lesley.  "For  shame  S  for 
shame  !  Let  the  poor  fellow  go  about  his  business,  and  sell  his 
ballads!"  Cleaveland  made  no  reply,  but  pocketed  his  ballads — 
damnatory  as  most  of  them  were,  had  they  been  read — and  became 
a  wanderer.  Report  says  he  found  Bacchus  more  comforting  than 
the  immortal  Nine,  but  this  is  probably  a  Puritan  slander.  He  was 
not  without  friends,  and  one  of  them  declares  that  as  many  places 
emulously  contended  for  his  abode  as  cities  for  the  birthplace  of 

Further  misfortune  befel  him.  He  reached  Norwich,  and  became 
a  private  tutor;  but  he  was  again  arrested  in  November,  1655.  A 
curious  document  is  extant,  in  the  form  of  a  letter  from  Major- 
General  Haynes  to  the  President  of  the  Council,  explaining  the 
whole  affair.     It  is  worth  quoting  entire. 

May  it  please  your  Lordship, 
In  observance  to  the  orders  of  his  Highness  and  Council  sent  unto  us,  we  have 
this  day  sent  unto  the  garrison  of  Yarmouth  one  John  Cleveland,  of  Norwich, 
late  Judge- Advocate  of  Newark,  who  we  have  judged  to  be  comprised  within  the 
second  head.    The  reasons  of  judgment  are  : — 

1 .  He  confesseth  that  about  a  year  since  he  came  from  London  to  the  City  of 
Norwich,  and  giveth  no  account  of  any  business  he  had  there ;  only  he  prctendeth 
that  Edward  Cooke,  Esq.,  maketh  use  of  him  to  help  him  in  his  studies. 

2.  Mr.  Cleveland  confesseth  that  he  hath  lived  in  the  said  Mr.  Cooke's  house 
ever  since  he  came  to  the  said  city,  and  that  he  but  seldom  went  into  the  city, 
and  never  but  once  into  the  country.  Indeed,  his  privacy  hath  been  such  that 
none  or  but  few,  save  Papists  and  Cavaliers,  did  know  that  there  was  such  a 
person  resident  in  these  parts. 

3.  For  that  the  place  of  the  said  Mr.  Cleveland,  his  abode — viz.,  the  said  Mr. 
Cooke's — is  a  family -of  notorious  disorder,  and  where  Papists,  delinquents,  and 
other  disaffected  persons  of  the  late  King's  party,  do  often  resort  more  than  to 
any  family  in  the  said  city  or  county  of  Norfolk,  as  is  commonly  reported. 

4.  Mr.  Cleveland  liveth  in  a  genteel  garbe,  yet  he  confesseth  that  he  hath  no 
estate  but  ^20  per  annum  allowed  by  two  gentlemen,  and  ^30  per  annum  by  the 
said  Mr.  Cooke. 

5.  Mr.  Cleveland  is  a  person  of  great  abilities,  and  so  able  to  do  the  greater 
disservice  :  all  which  we  humbly  submit,  and  remain 

Your  Honour's  trusty  humble  servants. 

This  remarkable  epistle  was  signed  by  Haynes  and  thirteen  others, 
and  is  dated  Norwich,  November  10,  1655.  Cromwell  had  desired 
the  discontented  to  be  looked  after,  and  a  scholar  was  arrested 
because  he  was  poor,  clever,  had  been  an  old  enemy,  and  wore  "a 

Cleaveland,  Royalist,  Wit,  and  Poet.  2 1 1 

genteel  garbe."  His  arrest  is  noted  by  Carlyle,  as  follows  : — "  This 
is  John  Cleaveland,  the  famed  Cantab  scholar,  Royalist  Judge-Advo- 
cate, and  thrice-illustrious  satirist  and  son  of  the  Muses;  who  had 
'  gone  through  eleven  editions '  in  those  times,  far  transcending  all 
Miltons  and  all  Mortals, — and  does  not  now  need  any  twelfth  edition 
that  we  hear  of.  Still  recognisable  for  a  man  of  lively  parts  and 
brilliant  petulant  character :  directed,  alas !  almost  wholly  to  the 
worship  of  clothes, — which  is  by  nature  a  transient  one  !  " 

Cleaveland  remained  at  Yarmouth  for  some  little  time,  occupying 
his  enforced  leisure  in  the  composition  of  poetic  trifles.     Not  relish- 
ing his  captivity,  however,  he  resolved  on  making  a  direct  appeal  ta 
Cromwell  himself.  This  letter  is  perhaps  the  best  and  purest  specimen 
of  his  style,  but  it  is  too  long  to  quote  entire,  besides  being  pretty 
generally  known.     He  appealed  to  Cromwell's  generosity,  referred  to 
his  past  fidelity  as  a  voucher  for  his  present  loyalty,  and  desired  him 
with  acts  of  mildness  to  "vanquish  his  own  victory."     "Can  your 
Thunder  be  levell'd  so  low  as  our  grovelling  condition  ?     Can  your 
tow'ring  spirit  which  hath  quarried  upon  kingdoms  make  a  stoop  at 
us  who  are  the  rubbish  of  these  ruines  ?  Methinks  I  hear  your  former 
Achievements  interceding  with  you,  not  to  sully  your  glories  with 
trampling  upon  the  prostrate,  nor  clog  the  wheels  of  your  chariot  with 
so   degenerous   a   triumph."     Generous   to   his   old   and   prostrate 
antagonist,  Cromwell   ordered   his   immediate   release.     Cleaveland 
went  to  London,  taking  up  his  residence  in  Gray's  Inn,  and  associating 
with  a  noted  club  of  wits.    Nichols  says  this  club  included  the  author 
of  "  Hudibras ;"  but  this  could  hardly  have  been  the  case,  as  Mr. 
Robert  Bell  produces  evidence  to  show  that  Butler  was  steward  at 
Ludlow  Castle  in  1661,  and  had  previously  been  in  other  similar 
situations.    I  have  been  unable  to  discover  the  name  or  th?  members 
of  this  club,  but  I  suspect  it  was  the  "  King  Club,"  and  that  Cleave- 
land, like  all  the  others,  received  the  cognomen  of  "  King  "  Cleave- 
land, which  he  most  certainly  deserved.    The  Puritan  Rota  or  Coffee 
Club  numbered  among  its  attenders  Milton,  Marvell,  Cyriac  Skinner, 
Harrington,  and  Nevill ;  and  the  King  Club  must  have  had  a  like 
brilliant  assemblage,  though  it  has  found  no  such  lively  historian  or 
sketcher  as  Pepys.     An  intermittent  fever  which  raged  in  London 
seized  Cleaveland  in  April,  1658,  and  he  fell  a  victim  to  it  on  the 
29th,  in  the  forty-fifth  year  of  his  age.     His  body  was  taken  from  his 
chambers  to  Hurasdown  House,  and  thence  it  was  conveyed,  on  the 
1st  of  May,  to  the  parish  church  of  St.  Michael  Royal,  College  Hill, 
where  it  was  buried  by  his  old  friend,  the  Rev.  Edward  Thurman, 
who  penned  a  Latin  poem  on  his  death.     His  funeral  sermon  was 

2 1 2  The  Gentleman 's  Magazine. 

preached  by  Dr.  Pearson,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Chester,  who,  says 
Fuller,  quaintly,  "rendered  this  reason  why  he  cautiously  declined  all 
commending  of  the  deceased,  because  such  praising  would  not  be 
adequate  to  any  expectation  in  that  auditory,  seeing  such  who  knew 
him  not  would  suspect  it  far  above,  whilst  such  who  were  acquainted 
with  him  did  know  it  much  beneath  his  due  dessert"  Elegiac  poems 
poured  forth  in  abundance,  whilst  many  who  admitted  his  genius 
whilst  he  lived  disputed  his  position  after  his  death,  or  essayed  to  lay 
their  "  cuckoo-eggs  in  his  nest."  Everybody  has  read  "  Hudibras," 
but  there  are  not  many  who  are  equally  familiar  with  Cleaveland,  who 
was  to  Butler  what  Jonson  was  to  Shakespeare  and  Parnell  to  Pope. 
No  one  has  even  attempted  to  show  that  Cleaveland  exercised  any 
influence  over  the  development  of  his  more  famous  successor ;  but 
no  diligent  student  can  read  the  poems  of  the  former  without  dis- 
covering in  them  hints  of  style  and  certain  kinds  of  satire  and  rich 
allusiveness  which  serve  to  give  to  "  Hudibras  "  half  its  charm  and 

Cleaveland  was  by  no  means  a  voluminous  writer.  His  entire 
works  do  not  make  a  volume  of  the  size  of  "  Hudibras,"  but  he 
found  quite  as  many  imitators,  and  to  Cleavdandise  was  once  as 
common  as  recently  it  was  to  write  "  Carlyleise."  But  his  occasional 
coarseness — a  quality  as  common  in  Robert  Herrick,  who  was  also  a 
student  at  Cambridge  in  his  time — offends  our  polite  ears  ;  though  I 
shall  esteem  myself  fortunate  if  I  can  only  do  for  the  former  what 
Sylvanus  Urban  did  for  the  latter  in  the  earlier  numbers  of  this 
magazine.  The  same  tendency  to  conceits  is  observable  in  the 
poems  of  both,  though  it  is  not  so  systematically  developed  in 
Cleaveland,  who  calls  up  image  after  image,  and  scarcely  concerns 
himself  with  the  orderly  pursuit  and  elaboration  of  any.  Perhaps 
his  love  poems  are  most  characterised  by  what  may  be  called 
systematic  ideas.  "Fuscara,  or  the  Bee-Errant,"  is  somewhat  in 
Herrick's  style.     The  airy  freebooter  passes  from  Fuscara's  sleeve  to 

her  hand : — 

Here,  while  his  canting  drone-pipe  scan'd 

The  mystick  figures  of  her  hand, 

He  tipples  palmistry,  and  dines 

On  all  her  fortune-telling  lines. 

He  bathes  in  bliss,  and  finds  no  odds 

Between  this  nectar  and  the  gods'. 

He  perches  now  upon  her  wrist 

(A  proper  hawk  for  such  a  fist), 

Making  that  flesh  his  bill  of  fare, 

Which  even  cannibals  would  spare. 

Cleaveland,  Royalist,  Wit,  and  Poet.  213 

From  hence  he  to  the  woodbine  bends, 
That  quivers  at  her  finger's  ends, 
That  runs  division  on  the  tree 
Like  a  thick-branching  pedigree  ; 
So  'tis  not  her  the  bee  devours, 
It  is  a  pretty  maze  of  flowers. 
It  is  the  rose  that  bleeds  when  he 
Nibbles  his  nice  phlebotomy. 

In  other  poems  he  exhausts  his  fancy  in  comparisons.     Thus  he 
writes  of  a  vision  : — 

Not  the  fair  abbess  of  the  skies, 

With  all  her  nunnery  of  eyes, 

Can  show  me  such  a  glorious  prize. 

*  *  *  * 

Is  not  the  universe  strait-laced, 
When  I  can  clasp  it  in  the  waist  ? 
My  amorous  fold  about  thee  hurl'd, 
With  Drake,  I  girdle  in  the  world. 
I  hoop  the  firmament,  and  make 
This,  my  embrace,  the  zodiack. 

Of  another,  he  writes  : — 

Say  the  astrologer  who  spells  the  stars, 
In  that  fair  alphabet  reads  peace  and  wars, 
Mistakes  his  globe,  and  in  her  brighter  eye 
Interprets  heaven's  physiognomy. 
Call  her  the  metaphysics  of  her  sex, 
And  say  she  tortures  wits,  as  quartans  vex 
Physicians ;  call  her  the  squar'd  circle ;  say 
She  is  the  very  rule  of  Algebra. 
Whate'er  thou  understand'st  not  say  of  her, 
For  that's  the  way  to  write  her  character. 

Phillis  is  walking  in  the  garden  before  sunrise,  giving  life  as  the  sun 

gives  it : — 

The  flowers  call'd  out  of  their  beds 

Start  and  raise  up  their  drousie  heads  ; 

And  he  that  for  their  colour  seeks 

May  see  it  mounting  to  her  cheeks, 

Where  roses  mix  ;  no  civil  war 

Divides  her  York  and  Lancaster. 

But  the  reader  will  have  had  enough  of  these  love  trifles,  and 
we  pass  to  his  satiric  poems  on  State  affairs,  where  the  range  for 
quotation  is  more  varied,  and  must  be  discreetly  traversed.  There 
is  not  the  same  objection  to  far-fetched  imagery  in  satire  as  in  other 
forms  of  poetry,  and,  indeed,  it  rather  gives  weight  and  directness  to 
it.  If  wit  be  the  detection  of  the  congruous  in  the  incongruous, 
Cleaveland  must  rank  very  high,  for  his  short  sparkles  are  abundant, 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  Q 

214  ^*  Gentlemafis  Magazine. 

and  he  no  sooner  charms  us  with  one  touch  of  his  pen  than  he 
essays  another,  finding  in  the  resources  of  his  memory  something 
more  apt  and  more  astonishing.  At  the  same  time,  were  we  to 
apply  a  rigid  test  to  his  poetry,  we  should  regard  it  as  little  better 
than  exaggerated  prose,  especially  prose  such  as  Cleaveland  himself 
was  able  to  write.  However,  all  satiric  poetry  is  open  to  this 
objection,  and  Cleaveland's  aim  was  not  so  much  to  cultivate  a 
jingling  as  a  masculine  style,  to  hit  hard  and  sure,  and  to  pack  his 
verse  with  thoughts  and  Attic  salt.  So  rich  are  some  of  his  poems 
in  historic  and  contemporary  allusions,  that  no  one  could  do  them 
justice  but  a  Zachary  Gray,  who  has  done  as  much  to  make  the  fame 
of  Butler  as  scholiasts  have  done  to  interpret  Shakespeare,  and 
without  any  taint  of  Boswellising.  I  have  noticed  that  Butler  must 
have  derived  considerable  inspiration  from  Cleaveland.  Compare 
them  both  on  the  Canon  of  1640,  called  the  Et  catcra  oath. 
Butler  makes  a  flying  allusion  to  it  in  Part  1,  Canto  ii.,  but  there  is 
more  vigour  in  Cleaveland's  description,  and  Dr.  Gray  quotes  the 
latter  as  in  some  sense  explanatory  of  the  former.  Butler's  descrip- 
tion of  Smectymnuus,  again,  suggests  Cleaveland's,  which  was 
evidently  familiar  to  him,  and  there  are  a  hundred  other  points 
where  "  Hudibras"  suggests,  and  seems  more  natural  when  considered 
as  the  logical. development  of,  many  of  Cleaveland's  scattered  efforts. 
The  two  satirists  worked  the  same  vein,  and  the  earlier  one  was 
more  wasteful  and  careless,  scattering  his  treasures  about  in  perfect 
indifference,  whereas  the  other  constructed  a  story,  and  had  all  the 
advantages  of  a  better  ear  for  verse,  and  a  more  sprightly  fancy, 
not  so  much  disturbed  by  egotism  or  special  advocacy. 

I  must  limit  myself  to  one  or  two  quotations.  I  will  begin  with 
"  Smectymnuus/'  so  called-  from  the  initial  letters  of  the  persons 
composing  the  club  : — Stephen  Marshall,  Edward  Calamy,  Thomas 
Young,  Mathew  Newcomen,  William  Spurstow.  They  were  oppo- 
nents of  Episcopacy,  and  their  followers  bore  the  above  name : — 

But  do  the  Brotherhood  then  play  their  prizes 

Like  mummers  in  religion,  with  disguises  ? 

Outbrave  us  with  a  name  in  rank  and  file  ? 

A  name  which,  if  'twere  rain'd,  would  spread  a  mile. 

The  saints  monopoly,  the  zealous  cluster, 

Which,  like  a  porcupine,  presents  a  muster, 

And  shoots  his  quills  at  Bishops  and  their  sees, 

A  devout  litter  of  young  Maccabees. 

Thus  Jack-of-all-trades  hath  distinctly  shown 

The  twelve  Apostles  in  a  cherry-stone. 

Thus  faction's  a  la  mode  in  treason's  fashion, 

Now  we  have  heresie  by  complication. 

Cleavelandt  Royalist,  Wit,  and  Poet.  215 

Like  to  Don  Quixote's  rosary  of  slaves 
Strang  on  a  chain,  a  murnival  of  knaves 
Pack'd  in  a  trick,  like  gipsies  when  they  ride, 
Or  like  the  college  which  sit  all  of  a  side. 

The  "  Hue  and  Cry  after  Sir  John  Presbyter  "  is  more  obscure  in 
■some  of  its  lines,  but  it  exhibits  CleavelancTs  power  of  condensed 
'description : — 

With  hair  in  character,  and  lugs  (ears)  in  text, 

With  a  splay  mouth,  and  a  nose  circumflcxt, 

With  a  set  ruft  of  musket-bore,  that  wears 

Like  cartrages,  or  linnen  bandilcers, 

Exhausted  of  their  sulphurous  contents 

In  pulpit  fire-works,  which  the  Bombal  vents ; 

The  negative  and  Covenanting  oath, 

Like  two  moustachoes  issuing  from  his  mouth, 

The  bush  upon  his  chin,  like  a  carved  story 

In  a  box -knot,  cut  by  the  Directory ; 

Madam's  confession  hanging  at  his  ear 

Wire-drawn  through  all  the  questions,  How  and  where ; 

Each  circumstance  so  in  the  hearing  felt, 

That  when  his  ears  are  cropp'd  he'll  count  them  gelt. 

The  weeping  cassock  scar'd  into  a  jump, 

A  sign  the  Presbyter's  worn  to  the  stump  ; 

The  Presbyter,  though  charmed  against  mischance 

With  the  Divine  Right  of  an  Ordinance — 

If  you  meet  any  that  do  thus  attire  'em 

Stop  them,  they  are  the  tribe  of  Adoniram. 

The  "Mixt  Assembly"  and  "The  Rebel  Scot/  are  both  terribly 
bitter  pieces,  and  justify  Cleaveland's  own  lines  : — 

A  poet  should  be  feared 
When  angry,  like  a  comet's  flaming  beard. 

He  heaps  all  his  withering  satire  on  the  Scot.     To  curse  him  properly 

he  must  "  swallow  daggers  first."     His  clans  are  "  rags  of  geography/' 

and  had  Cain  been  a  Scot — 

God  would  have  changed  his  doom, 
Not  fore'd  him  wander,  but  confin'd  him  home. 

As  rebels,  they  must  be  reclaimed,  but  by  force,  the  Prince  who 
would  do  it  otherwise  being — 

Like  him  or  worse, 
Who  saddled  his  own  back  to  shame  his  horse. 

Quite  as  happy,  in  another  style,  is  his  poem  on  "  The  King's 

Disguise."     Here  is  an  extract : — 

O  for  a  State-Distinction  to  arraign 

Charles  of  high  treason  'gainst  my  soveraignj 

His  muffled  feature  speaks  him  s  recluse, 

His  ruins  prove  him  a  religious  house. 


2 1 6  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

Heaven,  which  the  minster  of  thy  person  owns, 
Will  fine  thee  for  dilapidations. 

Thou  look'st  like  one 

Whose  looks  are  under  Sequestration : 
Whose  renegado  form,  at  the  first  glance; 
Shews  like  the  self-denying  Ordinance. 
*  *  •         "  • 

But  pardon,  Sir,  since  I  presume  to  be 
Clerk  of  this  Closet  to  your  Majesty ; 
Methinks  in  this  your  dark  mysterious  dress 
I  see  the  Gospel  couched  in  Parables, 
The  second  view  my  purblind  fancy  wipes 
And  shows  religion  in  its  dusky  types ; 
Such  a  text  royal,  so  obscure  a  shade, 
Was  Solomon  in  proverbs  all  arrayed. 

The  two  elegies,  one  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Edward  King,  an 

other  on  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  are  not  without  fine  \ 

touches,  overladen  with  much  fantastic  effort  and  not  a  litde  lab 

imagery.     The  first,  however,  is  worthy  of  being  remembered 

the  poet  need  not  ask  why  does  not — 

Some  new  island  in  thy  rescue  peep, 
To  heave  thy  resurrection  from  the  deep, 

when  he  has  embalmed  his  memory  in  such  living  verse. 

What  Cleaveland  did  in  verse  for  his  Presbyterian  foes  h< 
in  prose  for  the  Parliamentarians.  His  characters  are  wonde 
witty,  though  coarse  withal.  That  of  a  country  committee-man 
have  been  eminently  sensational  in  its  time.  Here  is  the  recei] 
this  Grand-Catholicon  : — "  Take  a  State-martyr,  one  that  for  his 
behaviour  hath  paid  the  excise  of  his  ears,  so  suffered  captivi 
the  land  piracy  of  ship-money ;  next  a  primitive  freeholder,  om 
hates  the  King  because  he  is  a  gentleman,  transgressing  the  ft 
Charta  of  delving  Adam.  Add  to  these  a  mortified  bankrupt 
helps  out  his  false  weights  with  some  scruples  of  conscience,  am 
his  peremptory  scales  can  doom  his  Prince  to  a  Mene  Tekcl.  ' 
with  a  new  blue-stockin'd  Justice,  lately  made  of  a  good  b 
hilted  yeoman,  with  a  short-handed  clerk  tack'd  to  the  rear  of  I 
carry  the  knapsack  of  his  understanding ;  together  with  two  or 
equivocal  Sirs,  whose  religion,  like  their  gentility,  is  the  extract  o 
acres ;  being  therefore  spiritual  because  they  are  earthly;  not  forg 
the  man  of  the  law,  whose  corruption  gives  the  Hogan  to  the  si 
Juncto.  These  are  the  simples  of  this  precious  compound,  i 
of  Dutch  Hotch-Potch,  the  Hogan-Mogan  Committee-man." 
Diurnal-Maker,  or  Parliamentary  journalist,  fared  no  bett 
Clcaveland's  hands,  and  one  of  the  figures  brings  in  no  less  a  p 

Cleaveland,  Royalist,  Wit,  and  Poet.  217 

than  Sir  Samuel  Lake,  the  supposed  hero  of  "  Hudibras."  To  call  a 
diurnal-maker  an  author,  he  says,  is  to  swallow  him  up  in  the  phrase, 
"  like  Sir  S.  L.  in  a  great  saddle,  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  giddy 
feather  in  his  crown."  "  To  call  him  an  historian  is  to  knight  a 
mandrake  ;  'tis  to  view  him  through  a  perspective,  and  by  that  gross 
hyperbole  to  give  the  reputation  of  an  engineer  to  a  maker  of  mouse- 
traps. Such  an  historian  would  hardly  pass  muster  with  a  Scotch 
stationer  in  a  sieve-full  of  ballads  and  godly  books.  He  would  not 
serve  for  the  breast-plate  of  a  begging  Grecian.  Not  a  worm  that 
gnaws  on  the  dull  scalp  of  voluminous  Holinshed  but  at  every  meal 
devoured  more  chronicle  than  his  whole  tribe  amounts  to.  A  marginal 
note  of  W.  P.  would  serve  for  a  winding-sheet."  The  diurnal  itself 
was  similarly  described,  and  with  as  much  force.  It  is  "a  puny 
chronicle,  scarce  pin-feathered  with  the  wings  of  time.  It  is  a  history 
in  sippets :  the  English  Iliads  in  a  nut-shell ;  the  Apocryphal  Par- 
liament's Book  of  Maccabees  in  single  sheets.  It  would  tire  a 
Welshman  to  reckon  up  how  many  Aps  'tis  removed  from  an  annal ; 
for  it  is  of  that  extract,  only  of  the  younger  house,  like  a  shrimp  to  a 

My  task  is  now  done.  Many  a  man  pays  the  penalty  of 
an  immediate  posthumous  fame  by  subsequent  neglect,  and  this  has 
been  the  fate  of  Cleaveland.  It  is  a  rare  thing  to  meet  with  his  works 
in  private  houses,  and  rarer  still  to  encounter  any  one  who  is  willing 
to  excuse  his  occasional  vulgarity  as  readily  as  allowances  are  made 
for  Herrick,  or  for  greater  men.  As  his  friend  Edward  Thurman  has 
sung,  "  Exitium  Carolus  ipse%  suum  " — he  has  perished  with  Charles. 
Butler  followed,  and  we  forget  the  satirist  of  the  King's  camp.  It  is 
pleasant  to  laugh  over  Hudibras  and  Ralph,  and  we  forget  the  author 
of  "  The  Rebel  Scot "  or  the  fierce  satirist  of  the  Smectymnuans.  But 
it  is  not  fair  to  a  man  who  made  a  style  and  who  was  a  literary  knight- 
errant  of  an  original  and  now  extinct  species.  Fuller,  who  may  be 
said  to  have  profited  by  his  study  of  Cleaveland,  describes  him  as 
"  a  general  artist,  a  pure  Latinist,  exquisite  orator,  and  (which  was  his 
master-piece)  eminent  poet.  His  epithets  were  metaphors,  carrying 
in  them  a  difficult  plainness,  difficult  at  the  hearing,  plain  at  the  con- 
sidering thereof.  His  lofty  fancy  may  seem  to  stride  from  the  top  of 
one  mountain  to  the  top  of  another,  so  making  to  itself  a  constant 
level  and  champaign  of  continued  elevations."  Fuller's  words  will 
have  their  weight  with  Fuller's  admirers,  but  it  is  a  pity  no  one  has 
striven  to  do  for  Cleaveland  what  has  been  done  for  so  many 
antiques  in  these  hero-worshipping  times.  It  has  not  been  done,  and 
hence  this  feeble  attempt. 

A    Valentine. 

HAT  shall  I  send  my  sweet  to-day, 
When  all  the  woods  attune  to  love  ? 
And  fain  I'd  show  the  lark  and  dove 

That  I  can  love  as  well  as  they. 

I'll  send  a  locket  full  of  hair  ; 
But  no,  for  it  might  chance  to  lie 
Near  to  her  heart,  and  I  should  die 

Of  Love's  sweet  envy  to  be  there ! 

A  violet  were  meet  to  give  ; 

Yet  stay  ! — she'd  touch  it  with  her  lips, 

And  after  such  complete  eclipse 
How  could  my  soul  content  to  live  ? 

I'll  send  a  kiss,  for  that  will  be 
The  quickest  sent,  the  lightest  borne, 
And  well  I  know  to-morrow  mora 

She'll  send  another  back  to  me. 

Go,  happy  winds,  ah !  do  not  stay, 
Enamoured  of  my  lady's  cheek, 
But  hasten  home  and  Til  bespeak 

Like  services  another  day  ! 


The  Majorcan  Origin  of  the 
Family  of  Buonaparte. 

'IVE-AND-TWENTY  years  ago,  situated  behind  the 
parochial  church  of  San  Jaime,  at  Palma,  the  capital  of 
the  Balearic  Islands,  there  stood  a  house  which  still 
presented  the  appearance  of  having  once  been  a  hand- 
£ome  edifice,  and  which  from  time  immemorial  had  borne  the  name 
of  Casa  Buonaparte.  In  1 846  a  journal  of  Palma,  El  Propogddor 
Balear^  took  occasion  therefrom,  and  from  the  corroborative 
testimony  of  the  documents  produced  and  cited  upon  the  following 
occasion,  to  establish  the  certainty  that  the  family  of  Napoleon  I. 
was  originally  native  of  that  island,  i.e.  Majorcan. 

The  article  appeared  to  me  so  interesting  at  the  time  that  I 
transcribed  it,  and  reproduce  it  here  in  an  English  dress  from  one 
of  my  old  "note-books": — 

"  A  traveller  strolling  one  day  through  the  streets  of  Palma,  on 
arriving  in  front  of  the  Casa  Buonaparte  was  observed  by  an  aged 
ecclesiastic,  who  at  the  moment  was  looking  out  of  one  of  the 
windows,  to  stop  suddenly ;  and,  after  surveying  the  house  from  base 
to  roof,  contemplate  with  marked  interest  the  architectural  grandeur 
of  its  front 

"The  bearing  of  the  stranger,  no  less  than  the  decorations  on  his 
breast,  of  which  one  was  the  crimson  ribbon  and  cross  of  the  Legion 
of  Honour,  indicated  him  to  be  a  French  military  officer  of 
distinguished  rank  who  had  passed  through  the  wars  of  the 

Too  much  engrossed  with  the  interesting  object  of  his  contemplation, 
some  moments  elapsed  before  he  became  conscious  that  he  was 
himself  an  object  of  marked  attention  to  the  venerable  ecclesiastic  at 
the  open  window,  who,  as  he  now  caught  the  less  occupied  gaze  of 
the  stranger,  with  a  courteous  inclination  of  the  head,  addressed  him 
in  the  French  language  as  follows  :— 

"  '  Your  surprise,  monsieur,  seems  great  at  the  architectural  beauty 
of  the  facade  of  this  hpuse,  and  you  may  with  reason  consider  it 
worthy  of  admiration.  But  you  would  admire  it  yet  more  if  you 
knew  that  it  is  the  house  whence  issued  the  progenitors  of  the  man 

220  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

who  has  filled  the  world  with  his  fame,  and  made  his  name  a  proud 
title  to  the  admiration  and  love  of  your  countrymen.  If  you  would 
desire  to  see  the  interior,  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  gratify  your  wish. 
Pray  enter ;  and  I  will  show  you  the  apartment  where  the  ancestors 
of  Napoleon  were  born,  and  the  roof,  now  blackened  by  time, 
beneath  which  the  life,  traditions,  and  fortunes  of  his  family  were 
fostered  during  three  centuries.' 

"  While  thus  addressed  by  the  venerable  and  sympathising  eccle- 
siastic, the  manly  countenance  of  the  enthusiastic  Buonapartist  was 
lit  up  with  the  deep-felt  joy  and  senfiment  of  thankfulness  which  the 
words  and  courteous  invitation  of  the  speaker  had  kindled  in  his 
breast.  The  name  of  Napoleon,  coupled  with  circumstances  of  such 
local  and  historical  interest,  could  not  other  than  deeply  move  him, 
dispelling  the  doubt  and  uncertainty  on  the  subject  of  the  identity 
of  that  house  of  which  he  had  received  some  vague  information  from 
the  host  of  his  hotel  on  the  previous  evening.  As  one  whom 
the  bullets  of  Jena  and  Mont  St.  Jean  had  respected,  he  felt 
privileged  in  the  gratification  of  his  curiosity,  courteously  accepting 
the  welcome  invitation. 

"  The  officer  at  once  entered  the  house,  and  ascended  the  stone 
staircase,  at  the  top  of  which  the  ecclesiastic  received  him  with  the 
most  charming  geniality  of  manner.  The  first  object  to  which  he 
directed  the  attention  of  his  visitor  was  a  large,  stone-sculptured 
armorial  shield  placed  above  the  door  which  gave  entry  into  the 
spacious  salon  of  the  '  Casa  Buonaparte. ' 

"'Look  at  that  escutcheon,'  said  the  priest;  'you  will  there  see 
that  same  eagle  that  you  have  beheld  gleaming  above  the  standards  of 
the  great  man  of  our  age.  The  eagle  was  the  military  insignia  which 
the  Majorcan  Buonapartes  bore  upon  their  banners  and  shields ;  and 
if  the  armies  of  Napoleon  added  thereto  the  thunderbolt  of  Jupiter 
in  the  claws  of  the  king  of  birds,  it  was  to  indicate  that  Napoleon 
was  the  bearer  of  war's  thunder,  or  rather  to  announce  to  the  nations 
his  Imperial  apotheosis,  after  the  manner  of  the  emperors  of  Ancient 
Rome.  The  glory  your  countrymen  have  acquired  on  the  battle- 
field they  owe  to  Napoleon ;  and,  as  I  perceive,  you  have  served 
under  him  for  many  years.  I  can  comprehend  and  excuse  the  pride 
you  feel  at  thus  being  beneath  its  roof.  This  is  the  cradle  of  his 
race !' 

"  *  To  dispel  any  doubt  you  may  have  entertained  on  the  subject, 
I  will  here  show  you  a  document  I  am  possessed  of,'  taking  it  from 
an  antique  carved  oaken  bookcase,  the  shelves  of  which  were  filled 
in  compact  array  with  volumes  and  parchment-bound  MSS.     '  Here/ 

Major  can  Origin  of t/ie  Family  of  Buonaparte.     221 

said  he,  'is  the  Royal  Decree  by  which,  on  the  23rd  July,  1409, 
Martin  I.,  King  of  Aragon,  rewarded  the  services  of  Doctor  Hugo 
Buonaparte,  Majorcan,  by  nominating  him  Regente  (Chief  Judiciary 
President)  of  Corsica.  That  magistrate,  born  in  this  very  house,  is 
the  direct  ancestor  of  Napoleon,  and  the  first  of  that  family  who 
established  himself  in  the  other  island.  He  it  was  who  there  founded 
the  illustrious  stock  from  which  in  course  of  time  was  to  issue  the 
great  man  whose  war-genius  humbled  the  proudest  thrones  of  conti- 
nental Europe. 

"  '  What  I  have  now  told  you  is  furthermore  proved  by  this  other 
document/  taking  from  the  same  compartment  of  the  MSS.  another 
similarly  skin-bound  collection  of  parchments.  '  Here  you  will  see  the 
legal  powers  given  and  conferred  by  the  same  Regente  upon  the  27th 
May,  1 41 9,  to  his  brother,  Bartolome'o  Buonaparte,  to  sell  all  the 
possessions  and  properties  which  he  had  left  but  still  held  in  Majorca, 
and  to  remit  to  him  the  product,  by  reason  of  his  resolve  to  remain 
and  settle  definitively  in  Corsica  with  the  children  already  borne  to  him 
by  his  wife,  Juana  de  Saucis.  These  two  documents  bear,  as  you 
will  perceive,  in  themselves  every  authenticity  necessary  to  obtain 
and  give  credit  to  their  contents.  They  prove  that  in  the 
second  decennium  of  the  fifteenth  century  a  Buonaparte  passed 
from  Majorca  into  the  Island  of  Corsica,  where  he  established  him- 
self and  begot  children,  who  became  the  stock  and  progenitors  of 
the  Corsican  family  of  the  Buonapartes,  and  of  Napoleon. 

"  '  Now  lend  me  your  attention  yet  a  little  longer,  and  listen  to  this 
letter,  written  to  the  author  of  '  The  Chronicles  of  Majorca/  Don 
Geronimo  Alemany,  by  a  learned  Jesuit  of  the  College  of  Trilingue, 
whom  various  affairs  having  relation  to  his  society  had  obliged  to 
proceed  to  Corsica : — 

"  To  Senor  D.  Geronimo  de  Alemany. 

"  'Ajaccio,  May  23,  1752. 

"'My  dear  Senor, — Desirous  to  fulfil  the  commission  that  M. 
Herarger  charged  me  to  execute  for  you,  I  visited  and  searched  all 
the  public  archives  of  this  city.  As  result  of  my  labours,  I  have  to 
inform  you  that  from  several  documents  preserved  therein  it  is 
attested  that  the  family  of  Buonaparte,  originally  from  Majorca,  first 
began  here  in  the  person  of  Hugo  Buonaparte,  who, was  Regente 
of  this  island  about  the  year  141 8,  and  before  whom  no  similar  name 
is  to  be  found  in  Corsica.  In  further  result  of  my  researches,  I  found 
that  the  sons  of  that  Regente,  by  name  Stephano,  Ferdinando,  and 
Andrea,  became  persons  of  distinction ;  that  they  obtained  upon 

222  The  Gentleniatis  Magazine. 

several  occasions  offices  of  mark  in  the  Republic,*  in  the  class  of 
patricians  ;  and  that  since  the  fifteenth  century  until  the  present  day 
the  Buonapartes  have  been  lords  of  Baetria.  I  think  that  this  will 
suffice  to  convince  you  of  the  identity  of  the  Majorcan  and  Corsican 

"  *  They  are  most  assuredly  one  and  the  same  race,  if  what 
M.  Herarger  has  told  me  on  your  part  be  true.  But  he  added  before 
my  departure  for  Marseilles  that  the  Majorcan  house  was  become 
extinct.  That  of  Corsica  still  subsists,  and  reckons  many  members, 
of  whom  Hermanno  and  Carlos  Buonaparte  are  both  established  in 

"  '  That  God,  our  Lord,  may  preserve  your  life,  is  the  prayer  of 
your  Servant  and  Brother  in  Jesus  Christ, 

"  *  Eusebio  Cassar, 

"  '  Of  the  Society  of  Jesus/ 

"  '  Do  you  not  see,  monsieur/  said  the,  venerable  ecclesiastic, 
'  do  you  not  see  in  that  Charles  Buonaparte  the  husband  of  Laetita 
Ramohno,  and  in  both  the  parents  of  the  First  Consul,  of  the 
Emperor  and  King  of  Italy  ?' v 

John  Lekjhton,  F.S.A. 

*  Corsica  was  at  this  time  a  dependency  of  the  Genoese  Repabfcp. 

The  Irish  Press. 

N  recent  years,  whenever  the  utterances  of  the  Irish  press 
have  been  brought  under  the  notice  of  the  English  people* 
the  attention  of  the  public  on  this  side  of  the  Channel  has 
been  directed  for  the  most  part  to  articles  which  are,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  Irish  Executive,  calculated  to  foment  discontent,  or  to 
blow  into  living  flame  the  slumbering  ashes  of  sedition.     Though, 
however,  the  titles  of  the  Irishman,  and  its  cheaper  edition,  the 
I$ag  of  Ireland;  the  Nation,  and  its  cheaper  edition,  the   Weekly 
Ntm,  are  familiar  to  the  reading  public,  very  few  contributors  to  the 
daily  and  weekly  papers  in  London  have  ever  seen  copies  of  the 
Irish  M  National"  journals.      They  circulate  among  the  Irish  resident 
in  the  metropolis ;  but  are  rarely  read  in  the  houses  of  any  other 
section  of  the  population.     It  may  be  further  stated,  as  a  somewhat 
curious  fact,  that  they  are  seldom,  if  ever,  seen  on  the  tables  of 
newspaper  editors  in  the  metropolis.    It  may  not,  therefore,  be  unin- 
teresting to  describe  briefly  the  character  of  these  papers,  the  wide- 
spread and  potent  influence  of  which  cannot  be  disregarded;  and  to 
indicate  the  effect  they  exercise  on  the  state  of  Irish  political  feeling 
in  its  various  phases.     No  one  who  remembers  the  deep  respect  with 
which  the  Roman  Catholic  clergy  were  considered  some  few  years 
ago  by  the  people  constituting  their  flocks  could  have  possibly  antici- 
pated the  indifference  with  which  their  views  as  political  guides  are 
now  received     This  alteration  in  sentiment  must  be  attributed  in 
the  main  to  the  effect  of  the  writing  in  the  journalistic  organs  gene- 
rally known  in  England  as  "  National."    Twenty,  indeed  a  dozen  years 
ago,  any  one  who  dared  to  utter  in  public  a  sentence  derogatory 
to  a  priest  in  the  south  or  west  of  Irelandwould  probably  have  been 
the  object  of  a  violent  assault ;  and  any  one  who  might  have  had  the 
hardihood  to  inflict  any  bodily  injury  on  one  of  the  spiritual  guides  of 
the  majority  of  the  people  would  probably  have  been  the  victim  of 
lynch-law  as  prompt  and  final  as  the  improvised  code  under  which  so 
many  obnoxious  persons  were  done  to  death  in  the  earlier  days  of  the 
American    Republic.     The  contrast  between  the  state  of  feeling 
indicated  and  that  which  now  prevails  is  the  most  striking  which 
has  ever  been  presented  in  the  recorded  history  of  any  country. 
Within  a  very  few  years  a  priest  has  been  burned  in  effigy ;  another 

224  The  Gentleman's  Magazine^ 

has  been  struck  in  the  face  at  a  public  meeting;  while  the  most 
extreme  of  the  "National"  organs  employ  their  bitterest  satire  and 
most  pungent  rhetorical  darts  to  assail  men  who,  like  Cardinal 
Cullen  and  tne  Roman  Catholic  Bishop  of  Kerry,  have  publicly 
denounced  the  Fenian  confederacy  as  being  a  secret  society. 

The  Nation,  the  oldest  of  the  "  National "  papers,  was  started  in 
October,  1842.  In  a  short  time  it  gathered  to  the  ranks  of  its  contri- 
butors all  the  talented  young  men  who  advocated  the  principles  of  the 
National  party.  Among  these  the  best  known  at  this  side  of  the  Chan- 
nel are  Maurice  O'Connell,  M.P.John  O'Connell,  M.  P.,  Charles  Gavan 
Duffy,  and  Denis  Florence  McCarthy.  The  articles  were  characterised 
by  remarkable  vigour  and  beauty  of  diction,  and  some  of  the  songs 
and  other  poems  published  in  its  columns  have  in  a  republished  form 
taken  a  standard  position  in  Anglo-Irish  literature.  Under  the  title 
of  "  The  Spirit  of  the  Nation "  these  lyrics  have  attained  a  wide 
popularity,  and  such  songs  as  "  The  Battle  Eve  of  the  Brigade  "  and 
"  Clare's  Dragoons,"  by  Thomas  Davis,  "The  Memory  of  the  Dead," 
published  anonymously,  and  "  O'Domhnall  Abu  "  (commonly  written 
O'Donnell  Aboo),  by  M.  J.  M'Cann,  are  known  through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  land ;  and  the  knowledge  of  such  pieces  forrecita- 
tation  as  "  The  Geraldines  "  and  "  My  Grave,"  and  "  The  Lament  of 
Owen  Roe  O'Neill,"  by  Thomas  Davis,  is  equally  broadly  diffused. 
On  their  first  publication,  the  Quarterly  Review  described  these 
metrical  selections  as  possessing  great  beauty  of  language  and 
imagery,  and  Fraser's  Magazine  declared  that  though  they'  were  mis- 
chievous it  "  dared  not  condemn  them,  so  full  were  they  of  beauty." 
Mr.  Isaac  Butt,  Q.C.,  now  member  of  Parliament  for  Limerick,  a 
gentleman  who  at  one  lime  directed  the  magazine  which  takes  its 
name  from  Ireland's  olden  university,  spoke  of  them  as  being 
"  inspired ;"  and  the  martial  tone  and  spirit  of  some  of  the  ballads 
elicited  from  the  Tablet  the  expression  that  they  were  "  the  music  of 
the  battle-field."  The  following  is  an  extract  from  the  preface  to  the 
edition  of  "The  Spirit  of  the  Nation,"  published  in  February,  1854 : 
— "  A  new  edition  of '  The  Sphit  of  the  Nation'  has  been  long  called 
for.  It  had  got  so  completely  out  of  print  that  the  publishers,  after 
long  inquiry,  only  obtained  a  copy  accidentally  at  an  auction  of 
books.  Meantime  its  reputation  has  been  steadily  rising,  not-  only 
at  home,  but  in  England  and  America."  Francis  Jeffrey  and  Miss 
Mitford  in  England,  and  Longfellow  in  America,  have  written  and 
spoken  of  some  of  the  poems  with  enthusiasm,  and  a  new  demand 
for  them  has  grown  up  in  both  countries.  Still  more  recently  the 
great   Tory  periodical  quoted  above  contained  a  justly  laudatory 

The  Irish  Press.  225 

notice  of  some  of  the  poets  whose  names  have  been  more  closely  con- 
nected with  the  palmy  days  of  the  Nation.  The  importance  of  these 
metrical  effusions  in  Irish  history  will  be  learned  from  the  following 
paragraph,  taken  from  the  preface  to  the  edition  published  in  1845  : 
— "  It  (the  collected  work)  was  seized  on  by  Ireland's  friends  as  the 
first  bud  of  a  new  season,  when  manhood,  mind,  and  nationality 
would  replace  submission,  hatred,  and  provincialism.  It  was  paraded 
by  our  foes  as  the  most  alarming  sign  of  the  decision  and  confidence 
of  the  National  party,  and  accordingly  they  arraigned  it  in  the  press, 
in  the  meeting,  in  Parliament,  and  finally  put  it  on  its  trial  with 
O'Connell  in  1844." 

The  Irishman,  originally  started  in  Belfast  by  Mr.  Denis  Holland 
— a  native  of  Cork,  whose  death  in  America  has  been  recently  an- 
nounced— and  afterwards  transferred  to  Dublin,  has  now  reached  its 
fifteenth  volume.  It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  brief  paper  to  express 
any  political  opinion.  It  may,  however,  be  stated  that  some  of  the 
articles  published  in  the  Irishman  are  remarkable  for  their  fervent 
eloquence  and  rhetorical  beauty.  It  will  be  remembered  by  all  who 
have  watched  the  progress  of  recorded  events  for  the  last  few  ^ears 
that  Mr.  Pigott,  the  proprietor  of  the  Irishman,  was  sentenced  to 
twelve  months*  imprisonment  for  inserting  an  article  entitled  "  The 
Holocaust,"  written  on  the  occasion  of  the  execution  of  Allen, 
Larkin,  and  Gould,  at  Manchester,  for  the  murder  of  Police-sergeant 
Brett,  in  their  successful  effort  to  rescue  two  prisoners  accused  of 
Fenianism.  At  the  trial,  the  judge,  as  well  as  the  counsel  on  both 
sides,  referred  to  the  exquisite  diction  which  characterised  some  of 
the  passages  contained  in  the  subject  of  the  indictment. 

An  extract  from  a  number  of  the  Irishman  published  in  the  earlier 
half  of  last  month  will  give  some  idea  of  the  influence  it  endeavours 
to  extend.  This  is  chosen  inasmuch  as  it  deals  with  a  subject  with 
which  people  on  both  sides  of  the  Channel  have  recently  become 
familiar.  This  article,  from  an  American  correspondent,  refers  to 
the  reply  of  Father  Burke,  the  Dominican  Friar,  to  Mr.  Froude,  on 
Irish  history : — 

A  Roman  Catholic  priest,  we  all  know,  is  not  a  free  agent  in  religious  or  poli- 
tical matters.  If  we  ignore  this  fact  we  are  unfit  to  render  a  verdict  in  this  case. 
He  may  talk  as  much  treason  as  another  man,  but  nobody  but  a  fool  expects  him 
to  rise  in  revolt  or  to  sanction  insurrection  like  other  men.  This  is  the  key  to 
what  seems  so  difficult  to  some.  We  attach  too  much  importance  to  what  a  priest 
says  about  politics,  we  seem  to  doubt  the  justice  of  a  revolt  against  tyranny  unless 
we  have  the  approval  of  the  clergy ;  forgetting  that  priests  are  commissioned  to 
preach  religion  and  not  politics — that  their  mission  is  one  of  peace,  not  of  war. 

We  would  rather  have  the  opinion  of  Isaac  Butt  on  a  question  of  law  than  the 

226  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

opinion  of  Cardinal  Cullen ;  and  we  would  sooner  consult  Drs.  Stokes,  Corrigan, 
M'Donnell,  or  Lyons  (Irish  doctors)  on  the  state  of  our  physical  health,  than 
Drs.  Ullathorne,  Manning,  or  Moriarty. 

But  if  it  were  a  question  touching  our  salvation,  we  (as  Catholics)  would  never 
think  of  applying  to  a  Stokes,  or  a  Corrigan,  or  an  Isaac  Butt.  Why  it  should  be 
different  in  politics  appears  to  be  entirely  due  to  the  fact  that  when  priests  were 
treated  as  rogues  and  rapparees,  they  became  the  advisers  of  the  people,  and 
shared  their  fortunes  and  their  fate.  Then  the  clergy  were  less  opposed  to  resist- 
ance and  revolt  than  they  are  now.  They  now  enjoy  all  the  liberty  they  can 
desire,  while  the  people  are  still  oppressed  by  the  same  tyranny  and  the  same 
tyrants  that  set  the  same  price  on  the  head  of  a  priest  and  the  head  of  a  wolf. 
All  this,  however,  is  fortunately  passing  away.  The  people  have  learned  to  think 
and  to  act  for  themselves  in  political  matters.  The  words  of  the  priests  are  no 
longer  of  weight  if  they  are  spoken  more  in  the  interest  of  England  than  of 
Ireland.  This  is  well  exemplified  in  the  cases  of  Cardinal  Cullen,  Dr.  Moriarty, 
and  other  eminent  ecclesiastics  noted  for  their  saintly  and  holy  zeal  for  the 
Catholic  Church,  but  noted  also  as  the  enemies  of  Irish  independence.  As  the 
priests  of  God,  every  Catholic  must  hold  them  in  the  highest  esteem,  but  as  Irish 
patriots  the  humblest  peasant  in  Ireland  abhors  the  political  doctrine  they 

One  feature  of  Irish  daily  journalism  is  perhaps  more  remarkable 
than  that  of  any  other  newspaper  press  in  the  world.  It  is  that  in  a 
country  where,  even  on  the  returns  most  favourable  to  Protestants, 
the  Roman  Catholics  constitute  something  like  three-fourths  of  the 
population,  all  the  daily  morning  papers  in  Dublin,  and  most  of 
the  dailies  of  any  importance,  are  the  property  of  Protestants,  and 
directed  by  professors  of  that  creed.  And  here  the  fact  may  be 
noted  that  amidst  a  gradually  diminishing  population  and  a  decaying 
commerce,  there  are  in  Dublin  as  many  daily  morning  papers  as  there 
are  in  London — if  the  organ  devoted  in  the  English  metropolis  to 
the  interest  of  a  particular  trade  be  excepted — and  that  there  are 
more  evening  papers,  if  the  evening  editions  of  the  Dublin  morning 
journals  be  considered. 

The  oldest  paper  in  Ireland  is  Saunders's  News  Letter^  the  name  of 
which  suggests  its  early  date.  It  professes  what  may  be  called  con- 
stitutional principles.  It  has  been  for  years  the  property  of  the 
Messrs.  Potts,  by  whom  large  fortunes  have  been  made  through  the 
agency  of  the  journal  with  which  their  family  name  is  familiarly  asso- 
ciated. Of  late,  doubtless,  owing  to  the  high  social  position  which 
the  family  has  assumed  and  the  wealth  it  has  accumulated,  the 
interest  of  the  paper  as  a  commercial  undertaking  has  not  been 
advanced  with  the  enterprise  which  characterises  the  conduct  of  its 
young  contemporaries. 

The  Daily  Express  may  be  described  as  representing  the  clerical 
phases  of  Protestant  opinion ;  its  tone  is  always  dignified  and 

The  Irish  Press.  227 

thoughtful,  and  though  one  might  desire  that  religious  questions 
should  be  discussed  in  its  columns  with  more  impartiality  and  less 
bias,  the  diction  in  which  its  articles  are  written  amply  proves  that 
they  are  generally  indited  by  men  of  high  culture  and  unquestionable 
ability.  Its  musical  criticisms,  written  by  Sir  Robert  Stewart, 
Mus.  Doc,  Professor  of  Music  in  the  University  of  Dublin,  constitute 
one  of  the  most  attractive  sections  of  Irish  journalism. 

The  Mai/,  morning  and  evening  editions  of  which  are  published, 
although  strongly  Conservative,  differs  from  the  contemporary  to 
which  reference  has  just  been  made  in  advocating  the  Conservative 
cause  more  from  the  political  than  from  the  religious  point  of  view. 
It  has  been  always  ably  edited,  and  some  well  known  novelists  and 
authors  in  other  branches  of  literature  have  won  their  rhetorical 
spurs  in  its  columns.  It  is  almost  uncompromising  in  its  opposition 
to  what  we  may  call  Liberal  opinions  as  represented  by  modern 
Liberal  Governments.  Its  leading  articles  are  written  in  a  terse  and 
incisive  style — a  method  of  writing  which  is  fully  appreciated  by 
the  race  which  has  made  rhetorical  fencing  a  distinct  branch  of 
journalistic  literature,  and  almost  a  trait  of  national  character. 

In  the  "  Newspaper  Directory  "  the  Irish  Times  is  described  as 
a  Liberal-Conservative  newspaper.  The  phrase  as  a  distinctive 
title  is  so  vague  that  it  is  unnecessary — indeed  it  would  be 
superfluous  and  redundant — to  endeavour  to  define  it.  The  brief 
history  of  this  paper  contains  the  recital  of  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  successes  ever  achieved  in  the  records  of  journalism. 
Its  owner — a  gentleman  connected  by  lineage  with  several  noble 
families  in  Ireland — though  having  no  previous  training  calculated  to 
lead  a  newspaper  to  profit — no  mean  undertaking — showed  after  a 
time  that  he  was  able  and  willing  to  abandon  social  aristocracy  to 
take  his  own  part  in  the  Republic  of  Letters.  Those  who  have 
studied  the  vicissitudes  of  journalistic  enterprise  know  well  the  diffi- 
culties through  which  a  newly  started  paper  has  to  pass  before 
it  reaches  not  only  vigorous  manhood  but — so  to  speak — healthy 
infancy.  Perhaps  there  is  no  more  astonishing  phenomenon  in  the 
history  of  modern  commerce  than  that  men  of  capital  should  start 
newspapers.  It  is  perhaps  the  only  kind  of  speculation  in  which  a 
man  voluntarily  invests  his  money  without  the  slightest  hope  of 
receiving  any  return  until  several  years  have  passed  away.  Even  the 
association  of  the  name  of  Charles  Dickens  with  the  most  sober  and 
impartial  of  English  journals  was  not  potent  enough  to  secure  its 
success ;  and  the  name  of  the  Morning  Chronicle  departed  from 
literature  a  few  years  after  it  was  believed  that  it  would  remain  a 

228  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

feature  of  English  journalism  as  long  as  the  Houses  of  Lords  and 
Commons  were  to  legislate  for  the  United  Kingdom.  The  tentative 
experience  of  many  years  is  necessary  before  the  organiser  of  a 
newspaper  can  gauge  the  feeling  of  the  constituents  to  which  he 
addresses  himself.  In  this  respect  the  proprietor  of  the  Irish  Times 
has  made  himself  a  conspicuous  exception.  In  these  days  no  project 
in  journalism — indeed  it  may  be  said  in  anything — can  secure  a 
prosperous  result  unless  it  be  promoted  with  commercial  courage.  To 
the  exercise  of  this  quality  the  proprietor  of  the  Irish  Times  may 
attribute  the  position  of  the  journal  with  which  his  name  in  Ireland 
is  now  identified.  Struggling  at  first  against  the  obstacles  which 
normally  oppose  the  progress  of  a  newly-established  newspaper,  he 
soon  showed  by  his  commercial  activity  that  he  was  determined  to 
prove  that  a  daily  paper  in  Ireland  might  be  able  to  rival  its  com- 
petitors in  its  own  land,  though  they  had  the  valuable  advantage  of 
older  age.  It  is  not  necessary  in  this  place  to  specify  the  various 
stages  through  which  the  Irish  Times  has  passed,  but  it  may  not  be 
amiss  to  indicate  briefly  the  literary  machinery  through  which  its 
present  position  is  maintained.  The  general  staff  comprises  as 
many  employes  as  most  of  the  daily  London  newspapers,  and  if 
the  room  for  printers  and  machinery  is  somewhat  circumscribed,  the 
economy  of  space  has  been  carefully  and  exactly  calculated  so  that 
the  greatest  amount  of  work  is  done  within  the  smallest  circum- 
ference. Though  classics  and  journalism  may  not  seem  to  have  any- 
thing in  common,  in  this  case  the  aptitude  for  the  one  has  proved 
indirectly  the  capacity  for  the  other.  This  observation  will  be  more 
readily  understood  when  the  fact  is  adduced  that  the  Rev.  G.  W. 
Wheeler,  M.A.,  well  known  in  academic  circles  in  Ireland  as  the 
annotative  editor  of  several  Greek  and  Latin  classics,  has  been  the 
editor  of  the  Irish  Times  almost  since  its  beginning.  The  "  Con- 
tinental Gossip"  from  Paris,  by  Major  Massey,  a  gentleman 
connected  with  several  aristocratic  families  in  the  south  of  Ireland, 
is  written  in  such  a  lively  and  brilliant  style  that  some  surprise 
has  been  expressed  that  the  "special"  of  the  Irish  Times  has 
not  appeared  in  some  higher  walk  of  literature.  The  London 
correspondence  is  supplied  by  Mr.  J.  H.  Doyle,  one  of  the  most 
active  and  experienced  members  of  the  press  in  the  metropolis. 
Its  staff  of  printers  and  machine  hands  is  nearly  equal  in  number 
to  that  of  any  English  daily  journal.  Regarding  its  circulation 
relatively  with  the  numbers  issued  of  the  other  Dublin  "  dailies," 
it  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  brief  article  to  give  an  opinion.  Indeed 
the  subject  of  superiority  in  this  respect  has  been  recently  the  cause 

The  Irish  Press.  229 

of  a  rhetorical  duello  between  the  Irish  Times  and  the  Freeman's 
Journal,  the  battle  being  a  drawn  one,  so  far  at  all  events  as  the 
public  are  enabled  to  judge.  The  Irish  Times  is  the  only  Dublin  daily 
which  publishes  a  sheet  of  eight  pages.  The  enterprise  of  the  pro- 
prietor is  further  demonstrated  by  his  establishment  of  a  brass  band 
consisting  of  youths  who  are  being  trained  as  compositors.  When 
they  play  at  concerts  or  other  entertainments  they  appear  in  hand- 
some uniforms  under  the  direction  of  their  own  bandmaster.  Indeed, 
the  Irish  Times  band  has  become  one  of  the  institutions  of  Dublin, 
and  its  services  are  always  available — even  at  the  sacrifice  of  the 
results  of  their  ordinary  labour — whenever  the  cause  of  charity  can 
be  promoted  by  its  performance.  A  servants'  agency  also  forms 
part  of  the  system  organised  by  the  proprietor  for  the  advancement  of 
the  journal  which  he  so  energetically  promotes. 

However  the  question  of  circulation  may  be  decided,  it  is  un- 
questionable that  as  an  organ  of  opinion  the  Freeman's  Journal 
appeals  to  the  sympathies  of  the  greatest  number.  This  will  be 
readily  understood  when  it  is  stated  that  it  advocates  Catholic  opinion 
in  the  sense  in  which  it  is  understood  in  Ireland — that  is  to  say^ 
Ultramontane  politics.  In  further  illustration  of  the  statement 
that  the  Dublin  press  is  directed  by  Protestant  promoters,  it  may  be 
stated  as  a  curiosity  of  journalistic  literature  that  the  Freeman's 
Journal— the  representative  organ  of  the  extreme  Catholic  party — 
is  the  property  of  a  Protestant,  Sir  John  Gray.  This  gentleman,  how- 
ever, has  always  strenuously  advocated  the  cause  of  Ireland,  as  it  is 
understood  by  the  majority  of  the  people.  He  was  the  friend  and 
fellow  prisoner  of  O'Connell,  at  whose  skirt — to  use  his  own  words 
recently  delivered — he  first  entered  public  life.  In  England 
Sir  John.  Gray  is  best  known  as  having  made  the  motion  on 
the  subject  of  the  Irish  Church  which  may  be  designated  as  the 
precursor  of  the  destruction  of  that  institution.  The  Freeman's 
leading  articles  are  written  in  a  vigorous  style  and  with  uncompromis- 
ing devotion  to  the  cause  it  endeavours  to  promote.  From  time  to 
time  articles  said  to  have  been  inspired  by  members  of  Liberal 
Governments  have  appeared  in  its  columns.  While  the  circulation 
of  the  other  journals  is  principally  local,  the  Freeman's  Journal  is  read 
in  every  place  where  Irish  people  dwell,  so  that  its  influence  may  be 
said  to  extend  to  the  limits  of  the  habitable  globe. 

Evening  editions  are  published  by  the  Mail,  the  Express,  and 

the  Irish  Times.    There  are,  besides,  two  evening  papers — similar 

to  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  and  the  Globe  in  England,  inasmuch  as  they 

have  no  morning  editions — the  Evening  Telegraph,  issued  from  the 

Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  R 

230  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Freeman  office,  and  the  Evening  Post.  No  other  portion  of  the  Dublin 
press  demands  notice  in  this  place;  the  character  of  the  other  journals 
can  be  easily  obtained  from  a  newspaper  directory.  There  is,  however, 
another  paper  in  Ireland  which  may  be  cited  among  the  curiosities 
of  journalistic  literature.  This  is  the  Limerick  Chronicle,  with  which 
is  identified  one  of  the  most  respected  families  connected  with 
the  city  whose  name  the  paper,  bears.  Its  peculiarity,  until 
recently,  consisted  in  its  military  news,  which  was  the  freshest  and 
fullest  to  be  found  in  any  paper  in  the  United  Kingdom.  Indeed, 
at  one  time  it  was  quoted  in  the  English  journals,  and  it  was  a  saying 
that  commandants  of  garrisons  often  learned  their  prospective  move- 
ments from  the  Limerick  Chronicle  before  they  received  any  orders 
respecting  them  from  the  Horse  Guards.  Even  now,  though  the 
Dublin  daily  papers  reach  Limerick  early  in  the  day,  the  Limerick 
Chronicle  holds  its  own  as  a  commercial  speculation.  It  seldom 
inserts  editorial  articles;  but  this  defect — if,  indeed,  it  be  one — is 
amply  supplied  by  the  able  and  tasteful  manner  in  which  it  is  sub- 

To  sum  up  briefly  the  contents  of  this  article — suggesting  some 
peculiarities  of  the  Irish  press — it  may  be  said  that  the  Irish  National 
press  has  done  much  to  estrange  the  people  in  Ireland  from  the 
priests;  that  almost  every  influential  paper  in  the  sister  island  is 
directed  by  Protestants;  and  that  the  daily  press  of  Dublin  enumerates 
as  many  representatives  as  the  daily  press  in  London. 

T.    F.   O'DONNELL. 



On  the  9th  of  January,  a  few  minutes  before  eleven  in  the  forenoon, 
Napoleon  III.  breathed  his  last  The  event  was  forthwith  com- 
municated to  the  world,  and  we  were  not  only  startled  at  the 
news,  but  the  cloud  of  misfortune  being  cleared  away  by  Death, 
we  all  of  us  became  aware  that  the  late  Emperor  stood  in  the  foremost 
rank  of  great  men.  Napoleon  died  in  exile,  and  at  the  age  of  sixty- 
five  ;  but  if,  like  his  favourite  hero,  Julius  Caesar,  he  had  been  assas- 
sinated in  the  meridian  of  his  power  and  in  the  vigour  of  his  man- 
hood, the  sensation  caused  by  his  death  could  hardly  have  been  more 
profound.  Perhaps  the  dust  of  a  century  must  rest  upon  his  tomb 
before  he  will  be  fairly  estimated,  for  the  Muse  of  History  disdains 
the  story  that  wears  the  gloss  of  novelty.  The  excitement  coincident 
to  his  death,  however,  shows  that  he  will  have  a  niche  in  the  Temple  of 
Fame  that  would  have  satisfied  the  most  voracious  ambition.  But 
•what  would  have  most  gratified  the  late  Emperor,  if  he  could  have 
had  a  prevision  of  the  talk  of  mankind  on  the  morrow  of  his  death, 
was  that  in  France,  his  native  land,  in  Italy,  the  land  he  redeemed  from 
bondage,  and  in  England,  the  land  he  loved  with  the  love  of  an 
adopted  son,  he  was  kindly  remembered.  Nor  is  the  death  of  the 
exiled  Emperor  an  unimportant  event.  His  late  sorrows  had  to 
some  extent  made  Imperialism  and  his  dynasty  unpopular  in  France. 
A  people  covetous  of  military  glory  could  not  forgive  the  fatal 
field  of  Sedan.  They  did  not  remember  the  twenty  years  of  pros- 
perity, but  even  a  section  of  devoted  Imperialists  held  that  the  Prince 
who  had  surrendered  his  sword  to  the  German  victor  could  not  again 
be  the  ruling  Emperor  of  the  French.  Napoleon  III.  is  dead,  and  an 
obstruction  to  the  restoration  of  the  Empire  is  removed.  Napoleon  IV. 
is  too  young  to  be  responsible  for  the  troubles  of  the  Empire.  He 
is  so  young  that  he  may  live  to  give  the  word  of  command  when 
France  is  ready  for  the  war  of  vengeance.  While  Napoleon  III. 
lived  the  restoration  of  the  Empire  was  well  nigh  impossible,  but 
now  no  one  who  is  conversant  with  French  affairs  will  say  that 
it    is  impossible.      It   was    not  the   political   consequences    that 

232  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

men  thought  of  when  they  heard  of  the  death  of  Napoleon  III. 
They  thought  of  his  wonderful  career — an  exile  in  boyhood,  a  for- 
lorn adventurer  in  his  early  manhood,  the  prisoner  of  Ham,  the 
refugee  in  England,  the  Prince  President,  the  Emperor  of  the  French, 
the  arbiter  of  peace  and  war,  the  ally  of  England  in  the  Crimean 
war,  the  hero  of  the  Italian  war,  and  once  more  an  exile  in  England. 
And  throughout  this  career  Napoleon  bore  himself  as  became 
a  king  of  men.  In  prosperity  never  unduly  exultant,  in  adver- 
sity ever  calm,  he  had  often  manifested  an  intrepid  bearing  in 
moments  of  danger,  and  amidst  the  horrors  of  Sedan  men  mar- 
velled at  the  fearless  demeanour  of  the  unfortunate  and  suffering 
Emperor.  It  is  admitted  that  he  rendered  splendid  service  to  the 
cause  of  human  progress.  He  might  have  fought  Germany  in  1864, 
and  triumphed,  but  his  triumph  would  have  postponed  the  unity  of 
Germany ;  and  posterity  will  not  blame  him  for  hoping  to  keep  up 
the  position  of  France  without  deluging  Europe  with  blood.  His 
Mexican  expedition  was  a  mistake ;  but  success  might  have  been  a 
blessing  to  that  country.  When  his  death  was  announced  to  the 
Italian  Chamber,  there  was  a  grateful  acknowledgment  that  he  had 
by  his  advice  and  by  his  prowess  emancipated  Italy.  After  centuries 
of  hostility,  he  united  England  and  France  in  the  bonds  of  amity. 
There  is  something  touching  in  his  staunch  and  enduring  friendship 
for  our  country.  He  offended  his  subjects  rather  than  relax  that 
friendship,  and  adopted  a  policy  of  free  trade  beneficial  to  both 
countries,  though  it  was  not  popular  in  France.  About  his  private 
character  there  is  to  be  said  that  his  wife  and  son  were  devoted  to 
him,  and  no  man  ever  had  more  loving  friends.  Their  affection  was 
not  less  ardent  when  he  was  in  exile,  and  when  he  died  they 
grieved  with  warm  and  irrepressible  grief.  He  was  human.  He  had 
faults  and  failings,  but  his  virtues  were  grand  and  conspicuous. 
Take  him  altogether,  he  was  the  greatest  man  of  our  times,  and  though 
dying  in  exile  it  is  not  surprising  that  his  death  has  engaged  the 
attention  and  thought  of  the  world. 

In  these  high-pressure  days  it  is  gratifying  to  see  an  author 
stepping  aside  from  general  work  to  set  up  a  literary  monument, 
however  small,  by  which  he  would  desire  to  be  remembered.  I  have 
myself  had  these  fits  of  longing  to  live  in  the  future,  to  be  known 
and  to  be  read  long  after  the  weeds  have  buried  the  plain  slab  with 
him  in  whose  memory  it  was  once  set  up  fresh  and  new.  I  fancy 
Blanchard  Jerrold  was  influenced  by  some  sentiment  of  this  kind 

Table  Talk.  233 

when  he  wrote  "  The  Christian  Vagabond,"  which  he  contributed 
some  time  since  to  my  pages.  It  is  an  earnest  and  worthy  perform- 
ance, and  I  am  glad  to  receive  the  work  in  book  form,  nicely  printed 
and  embellished  with  characteristic  illustrations  by  the  author  him- 
"  self.  "  The  Christian  Vagabond  "  strikes  the  key-note  of  the  best 
and  holiest  impulses  of  the  human  heart. 

Dr.  Shea,  of  New  York,  has  been  engaged  for  a  considerable  time 
in  an  investigation  of  the  names  of  the  States,  in  their  origin  and 
significance.  He  has  set  forth  the  result  in  an  "  Historical  Record," 
from  which  I  gather  some  very  curious  information.  Some  of  our 
educationists  will  do  well  to  revise  their  books  on  geography  from 
these  new  facts.  Alabama  is  from  the  name  of  the  tribe  originally 
written  Alibamon  by  the  French.  The  late  Rev.  Mr.  Byington,  an 
accomplished  Choctaw  scholar,  sustained  the  earlier  French  by 
making  the  Alibamons  to  be  Choctaws,  and  he  ridiculed  the  transla- 
tion, Here  we  rest ;  or,  the  land  of  rest.  Mississippi  is  not  Choctaw  or 
Natchez  at  all.  The  name  first  reached  the  French  missionaries  and 
voyageurs  through  the  northern  Algonquin  tribes,  and  is  clearly 
intelligible  in  their  languages.  Missi  or  Michi  means  great ;  sipi, 
river;  so  that  it  simply  means  great  river,  a  derivation  supported 
by  the  Greek.  The  Ottawa  was  called  Kichisipi,  a  great  river; 
and  Colonel  Pichlynn,  a  very  intelligent  Shawnee,  when  asked 
by  the  late  Buckingham  Smith  the  meaning  of  Chesapeake,  at 
once  said  Kichi-sipik — place  of  the  great  water.  Arkansas  is  written 
in  early  French  documents  Alkansas,  so  that  the  French  word 
arc  certainly  did  not  enter  it,  and  such  compounds  are  not  in  the 
style  of  the  French.  Alkansas  or  Arkansas  was  the  name  given 
by  the  Algonquins  tribe  to  the  nation  calling  themselves  Quappas. 
Kentucky  is  by  Algonquin  scholars  interpreted  like  Connecticut — the 
long  river.  Ohio  is  not  a  Shawnee  word,  or  a  word  in  any  Algonquin 
dialect.  It  is  pure  Iroquois,  like  Ontario,  and  means,  in  Iroquois, 
beautiful  river.  Michigan  is  Michi,  great;  and  gami,  lake,  in  Algon- 
quin, and  is  given  in  an  early  French  Illinois  dictionary.  As  earliest 
given  it  is  Michigami.  Illinois  is  not  a  compound  of  Indian  and 
French,  but  a  Canadian-French  attempt  to  express  the  word  Illiniwek, 
which  in  Algonquin  is  a  verbal  form,  "  We  are  men."  The  wek 
gradually  got  written  ois>  pronounced  way>  or  nearly  so.  We  say 
Illy-noy ;  but  the  French  said  Uleen-way,  and  the  Indians  Illeen-week. 
Wisconsin  arises  from  a  misprint ;  all  the  early  French  documents 
have  Ouisconsing,  or  Misconsing,  and  this  seems  to  come  from  Miscosi 

234  The  Gentleman! s  Magazine. 

it  is  red.  Wishcons  may  mean  a  small  beaver  lodge.  Missouri  is  a 
name  first  given  in  Marquette's  journal,  and  evidently  Algonquin. 
In  an  Illinois  dictionary  the  meaning  given  is  Canoe.  In  Baraga's 
dictionary,  for  //  is  muddy,  he  gives  ajishkiwika,  but  no  word  like 
Missouri.  Iowa  is  written  at  first  Aioues,  and  was  applied  to  a  tribe 
of  Indians,  and  would  seem  to  be  simply  Ajawa — across,  beyond,  as 
if  to  say  the  tribe  beyond  the  river.  With  this  we  may  compare  the 
term  Hebrews,  so  called  from  having  crossed  over  into  another 
country,  from  the  Euphrates.  Texas  was  a  name  applied  to  a  con- 
federacy, and  is  said  by  Morfi,  in  his  "  Manuscript  History  of 
Texas,"  to  mean  Friends. 

There  is  no  data  upon  which  to  form  a  reliable  account  of  the 
origin  of  billiards.  Dr.  Johnson  gives  reasons  for  believing  that  the 
game  had  its  birth  in  England.  Todd  argues  that  billiards  originated 
in  France.  Strutt,  who  is  an  excellent  authority  on  "Sports  and 
Pastimes,"  believes  billiards  to  be  merely  the  game  of  paille-maille 
transferred  from  the  ground  to  the  table,  and  concerning  which 
"  Cavendish  "  gave  an  illustration  in  the  first  volume  of  my  "  entirely 
new  series."  Billiards  superseded  shovel-board.  In  1674  a  billiard 
table  had  six  pockets.  The  bed  of  the  table  was  made  of  oak,  and 
the  cushions  were  stuffed  with  "  fine  flax  or  cotton."  Maces,  not 
cues,  were  used,  made  of  some  weighty  wood  and  tipped  with  ivory. 
The  peculiarity  of  the  game  consisted  in  the  use  of  a  small  arch  of 
ivory,  called  the  "  port "  (placed  where  the  pyramid  spot  now  stands), 
and  of  an  ivory  peg  or  "  king,"  placed  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
table.  Two  balls  were  used,  and  the  game  played  was  the  white- 
winning  game  (single  pool),  five  up  by  day-light,  three  by  candle-light 
Beyond  the  "  lives  "  scores  were  counted  appertaining  to  passing  the 
port  or  to  touching  the  king.  "  French  billiards,"  which  was  essentially 
single  pool,  was  next  introduced.  "  Carambole,"  the  precursor  of 
billiards  as  now  played  in  England,  was  the  next  advance  in  the  game. 
"  Curiously  enough,  the  French  have  of  late  years  entirely  discarded 
pockets,  playing  only  cannons :  and  what  was  formerly  the  French 
game  is  now  called  the  English  game."  Up  to  1810  the  development 
of  the  game  was  very  slow ;  soon  after  this  date  the  introduction  of  cue- 
playing,  leathern  tips  and  chalk,  side-strokes,  and  improvements  in 
tables  caused  quite  a  revolution  in  the  science  of  billiards.  A  man 
named  Bentley,  proprietor  of  a  billiard  room  at  Bath,  discovered  the 
side-stroke ;  and  May,  a  billiard  table  keeper,  first  popularised  the 
spot  When  Cook  became  the  champion  player  of  England  he 
eclipsed  all  previous  scores,  making  breaks  of  417  (137  spots),  447 

Table  Talk.  235 

(138  spots),  512  (167  spots,  a  cannon  intervening),  531,  and  752 
(220  spots,  two  all-round  breaks  intervening).  Next  to  Cook,  Joseph 
Bennett  has  made  the  largest  break  on  record — viz.,  510  off  the  balls, 
including  149  consecutive  spots.  At  present  Cook  is  champion,  and 
for  some  time  to  come  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  holder 
of  the  cup  will  be  found  in  either  Cook,  Bennett,  or  Roberts,  jun., 
who  are  the  three  leading  players  of  billiards.  I  gather  these 
interesting  notes  from  a  new  book  on  billiards,  by  Joseph  Bennett, 
edited  by  "  Cavendish,"  and  published  by  De  la  Rue  and  Co.  This 
work,  for  the  first  time  it  seems  to  me,  reduces  the  game  to  a  complete 
and  comprehensive  system.  "  Cavendish  "  has  shown  a  remarkable 
capacity  in  other  directions  for  harmonising  and  working  out  general 
principles;  with  the  aid  of  a  finished  player,  he  has  brought  his  theory 
of  a  systematic  treatise  to  a  practical  issue.  The  new  billiard  book 
must  become  a  necessary  companion  to  those  who  study  the  game 

Who  shall  write  the  Life  of  Ix>rd  Lytton,  as  that  of  Dickens  is 
being  written  by  his  friend  John  Forster  ?  I  cannot  think  of  any  man 
who  has  lived  in  the  midst  of  us  down  to  these  last  days  whose 
biography  would  make  so  varied  and  so  intensely  interesting  a 
story  of  high  literary  and  political  life  during  the  last  half  century. 
Dickens  was  always  a  lion  among  men  of  letters  ;  Thackeray  was  a 
constant  attendant  at  clubs,  and  haunted  the  studios  of  artists ;  but 
the  author  of  "The  Caxtons,"  "The  Lady  of  Lyons,"  and  "King 
Arthur" — the  poet,  the  pamphleteer,  the  novelist,  the  Whig  poli- 
tician, the  Tory  statesman,  the  peer :  the  man  who  from  the  begin- 
ning of  his  career  was  behind  the  scenes  in  every  phase  of  public 
life — political,  literary,  dramatic,  artistic,  diplomatic,  aristocratic, 
Bohemian,  or  whatever  else — during  a  period  covering  the  life  of  two 
of  three  generations,  must  have  left  behind  him  the  materials  of  a 
biographical  work  hardly  less  attractive  than  his  most  successful 
book  or  his  most  famous  play.  His  letters,  his  memoranda,  his 
rough  literary  sketches,  his  diary,  if  he  has  left  one,  the  materials  of 
autobiography  whereof  we  shall  most  likely  hear  very  soon- 
will  make  one  of  the  most  popular  books  of  the  next  ten  years. 
And  what  if  it  should  contain  4  private  revelations  ?  There  are 
domestic  passages  in  the  biography  of  Dickens  which  the  world  is 
expecting  shortly  to  hear  narrated.  A  mystery  as  yet  unrevealed 
hangs  over  the  home  experience  of  Thackeray.  Already  the  con- 
temporaries of  the  author  of  "  Pelham"  have  been  shown  a  little  way 

236  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

behind  the  scenes  of  his  married  life.  Will  anything  more  be  told  > 
will  misconceptions  be  removed ;  will  the  story  as  it  stands  be  con- 
firmed; or  will  not  a  word  be  added  to  the  imperfect  picture? 
But  first  we  are  all  looking  for  the  posthumous  novel,  "Opinions  of 
Kenelm  Chillingley, "which  happily  received  the  author's  own  finishing 
touches  before  he  died.  In  that  he  was  able  to  set  his  seal  to  the 
last  of  his  numerous  works  he  was  so  much  more  fortunate  than 
Thackeray,  Dickens,  or  Macaulay.  The  novel  must  be  great  to  add 
to  his  fame.  When  will  England  produce  another  to  perform  high- 
class  work  in  so  many  and  such  varied  fields  of  intellectual  activity  ? 

Few  more  interesting  controversies,  both  in  a  literary  and  an  historical 
point  of  view,  have  ever  arisen  than  the  discussion  which  has  recently 
been  carried  on  respecting  the  authenticity  and  genuineness  of  the 
Swiss  legend  in  which  the  archery  feats  of  William  Tell  are  described. 
The  object  of  this  brief  note  is  not  to  attempt  to  settle  the  dispute, 
but  merely  to  state  that  the  story  has  penetrated  the  Arctic  circle. 
In  the  metrical  traditions  of  Lapland  and  Russian  Karelia  all  the  lead- 
ing particulars  in  the  life  of  the  Swiss  hero  are  closely  reproduced — 
unless,  indeed,  the  story  be  of  Northern  origin.  In  Lapland  literature 
it  is  varied,  so  that  the  son  is  the  active,  and  the  father  the  passive, 
personage  in  the  tale.     The  latter  has  been  taken  captive  by  a  band 
of  Finn  marauders.    The  former — a  boy  twelve  years  of  age — 
threatens  the  party  with  his  bow  from  a  position  of  safety  on  the 
other  side  of  a  lake.     The  captors,  dreading  his  skill,  promise  the 
father's  liberty  on  a  condition  similar  to  that  related  in  the  Swiss 
legend.     "Raise  one  hand  and  sink  the  other,  for  the  water  will 
attract  the  arrow,"  is  the  father's  advice.     The  apple  is  duly  cloven, 
and  the  father  released.     The  incident  of  the  jump  from  the  boat 
is  also  recited ;  and  the  northern  locality  specified  as  distinctly  as 
the  Lucerne  of  Swiss  history.     The  legend   in  this  form  was  dis- 
covered about  thirty  years   ago  by  Mathias  Alexander  Castren,  a 
native  of  Finland.     In  the  Finnish  and  Lappish  metrical  writings  he 
also  discovered  the  leading  particulars  of  the  adventure  of  Ulysses 
with  the  Cyclops.     From  what  original  source — says  a  reviewer  of 
Castren's  work — or  through  what  channels  these  traditions  have  tra- 
velled, it  is  probably  vain  to  inquire  or  dispute  :  the  triumph  of 
courage  over  numbers,  of  policy  over  brute  force,  has  its  charm  for 
the  rudest  nations,  and  from  Jack  the  Giant  Killer  to  William  Tell 
the  key-note  of  the  strain  is  ever  the  same. 


Gentleman's  Magazine 

March,  1873. 


A  Novel  of  Modern  Life. 


ON    THE    BRINK. 

(WO  men  loved  her.     One  was  rich  ;  the  other  poor. 
Her  whole  life  was  influenced  by  an  accident,  a  mistake, 
a  misunderstanding,  a  calumny.     They  who  loved  her 
most  were  her  detractors.     Sometimes  our  best  friends 
are  the  first  to  be  deceived  by  appearances  which  belie  us. 

Tom  Mayfield  gave  her  the  name  of  Clytie  even  before  he  had 
spoken  to  her ;  she  was  so  round  and  dimply,  and  had  such  wavy 
hair,  and  such  brown  tender  eyes,  and  was  altogether  so  much  like  the 
popular  statuette  of  the  goddess  who  was  changed  into  a  sunflower 
for  very  love.  Tom  Mayfield  was  a  student  in  Dunelm  University, 
and  he  saw  Clytie  first  at  a  boat-race  on  the  Wear.  She  was  accom- 
l>anied  by  her  grandfather,  the  organist  of  St.  Bride's,  with  whom  Tom 
speedily  made  friends,  that  he  might  have  facilities  for  wooing  this 
belle  of  the  cathedral  city. 

Tom  had  already  a  rival  before  he  had  the  right  to  regard  any 
man  as  his  opponent  Love's  shadows  of  doubt  and  fear  had  fallen 
upon  him  before  his  sun  of  hope  could  even  be  said  to  have  risen. 
Tom  was  poor.  Philip  Ransford  was  rich.  Tom  was  a  pale- 
faced  student,  and  burnt  the  midnight  oil  over  hard  tasks  that 
were  his  battles  for  wealth  and  fame.  Philip  Ransford  was  a  big, 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  s 

238  The  Gentleman 's  Magazine. 


burly  fellow,  who  followed  the  hounds,  belonged  to  London  Clubs, 
kept  a  yacht,  and  was  the  son  of  James  Ransford,  whose  cotton 
factories  manufactured  money  with  a  daily  regularity  that  at  any 
moment  could  be  made  into  a  sum  and  reckoned  up  to  the  closest 

When  Philip  Ransford  learnt  that  Tom  Mayfield  was  a  frequent 
visitor  at  the  organist's  pretty  little  house  in  the  Bailey,  he  swore 
with  his  fist  clenched  that  he  would  ride  over  Tom  in  the  street,  or 
brain  him  with  his  whip-handle. 

"  Calls  her  Clytie,  does  he?"  Phil  muttered,  as  he  strode  along  the 
Bailey  on  a  summer's  evening,  after  a  day's  salmon  fishing  up  the 
river;  "  I'll  Clytie  him  !" 

It  was  glorious  to  see  the  sun  finding  out  the  moss  and  lichens  in 
that  dull  street  which  echoed  the  footsteps  of  Clyde's  swashbuckling 
lover.  The  quaint  gables  of  St.  Bride's  flung  purple  shadows  over 
the  road,  and  the  great  Cathedral  towers  rose  up  strong  and  bold 
against  the  red  sky.  On  one  side  of  the  street  a  high  wall  shut  in  the 
Cathedral  Close  and  St.  Bride's ;  on  the  other  the  back  entrances  of 
some  dozen  houses  opposed  the  gloom  of  the  mossy  wall ;  but  now 
and  then  you  had  a  peep  of  paradise,  for  the  fronts  of  the  houses 
looked  out  upon  the  Wear,  and  here  and  there  a  door  was  open, 
showing  a  long  vista  of  lawn  and  garden,  of  tree  and  river,  and  of 
distant  hills  cold  and  blue,  in  contrast  with  the  red  of  the  sun  which 
set  behind  St.  Cuthbert's  towers.  Farther  down  the  street  called  the 
Bailey,  as  you  came  to  a  bend  of  the  way,  an  arch  closed  the  road. 
It  seemed  to  be  filled  with  a  picture  of  laburnum,  lilac,  and  elm,  with 
a  bit  of  balustrade  and  a  shimmering  glimpse  of  river.  This  was  an 
outlet  into  the  Banks,  separated  from  the  Bailey  by  the  Prebend's 
Bridge,  on  which  Tom  Mayfield  first  saw  Clytie,  who  lived  within 
the  Bailey,  and  a  few  yards  on  this  side  of  that  lovely  picture  of 
laburnum,  lilac,  and  elm  framed  in  the  crumbling  old  archway  of 
Prebend's  Bridge. 

The  Hermitage'was  a  small  house.  It  was  hard  to  divine  how  it 
had  come  to  find  a  place  among  the  fine  houses  which  were  built  on 
either  side  of  it,  with  gardens  sloping  down  to  the  beautiful  northern 
river.  It  was  rented  at  only  twenty-five  pounds  a  year;  but  it 
belonged  to  the  Dean  and  Chapter,  and  they  were  very  particular 
about  their  tenants.  Indeed,  it  was  looked  upon  as  a  patent  of 
respectability  to  be  allowed  to  rent  the  Hermitage.  Old  Luke 
Waller,  when  he  arrived  in  Dunelm  with  his  grandchild,  then  an 
infant  of  six,  brought  a  special  letter  of  introduction  to  the  Dean 
from  a  noble  lord,  through  whose  influence  he  had  been  appointed 

Clytie.  239 

organist  of  St.  Bride's,  at  the  handsome  salary  of  two  hundred  a  year, 
one  hundred  and  fifty  of  which  came  out  of  his  lordship's  purse, 
unknown  to  Luke  Waller,  whose  antecedents  were  a  complete  blank 
to  the  citizens  of  Dunelm. 

Luke  had  a  history  that  would  have  astonished  the  ancient  city 
of  St  Cuthbert.  Sometimes  when  he  was  playing  the  voluntary  at 
church,  and*  thinking  of  the  past,  he  got  his  story  mixed  up  in  the 
music,  and  found  himself  wandering  in  imagination  through  the 
streets  of  London.  It  had  been  necessary  on  several  occasions  for 
the  parson  to  send  a  message  round  to  the  organ-loft  to  stop  the 
musical  reverie  with  which  he  was  accompanying  his  reminiscences. 
On  these  occasions  Luke  Waller  would  suddenly  pull  himself 
together  and  go  through  the  service  with  an  earnestness  that  lent 
additional  charms  to  the  quiet  simplicity  which  marked  the  ortho- 
doxy of  St.  Bride's.  But  he  would  go  back  again  with  Clytie  when 
the  church  was  empty,  loc1-.  the  doors,  get  the  girl  to  blow  for  him 
(it  was  a  small  organ,  and  she  delighted  in  the  work),  and  play  out 
his  dream.  He  was  a  strange  old  man — a  tottering,  grey-headed 
old  man,  with  almost  a  youthful  blue  eye,  white  teeth,  and  cheeks 
like  the  streaky  side  of  an  old-fashioned  apple,  red  and  wrinkly. 
Life  to  him  was  a  daily  devotion  to  the  happiness  of  his  grand- 
daughter, Mary,  or  Clytie,  as  I  have  re-christened  her  in  deference  to 
the  poetic  fancy  of  Tom  Mayfield,  and  for  some  suggestiveness  in 
the  name  which  may  be  justified  hereafter. 

Phil  Ransford  entered  the  Hermitage  on  this  summer  evening  of 
my  story,  with  his  fishing  tackle  and  a  creel  containing  a  brace  of 
salmon,  which  in  all  their  red  and  silvery  beauty  he  laid  on  a  bed  of 
grass  before  Luke  and  Clytie. 

"  Those  are  fine  fish,"  said  Mr.  Waller. 

"  I  brought  them  for  your  acceptance,  if  you  will  oblige  me,"  said 

Clytie  looked  up  admiringly  at  Phil's  manly  figure,  and  smiled 
with  a  quiet  satisfaction. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  old  man — "thank  you,  Mr.  Ransford;  one 
will  be  quite  enough  for  us." 

"  You  can  pickle  the  other,"  said  Phil ;  "  your  cook  is  up  to  that, 
I  suppose,  eh,  Miss  Waller  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Clytie. 

"  Yes,  she  can  cook,"  said  Mr.  Waller ;  "  that  must  be  said  in  her 

Phil  had  sat  down,  and  laid  his  fishing-rod  in  a  corner  of  the 


s  2 

240  The  Gentlematis  Magazitte. 

"  You  are  tired,"  said  Luke  Waller*;  but  there  was  little  or  no  sym- 
pathy in  the  remark. 

"  I  am,  and  hungry.     I  very  nearly  took  that  first  fish  into  a  public 
on  the  river  and  had  a  steak  cut  out  of  him ;  but  I  thought  a  brace 
of  salmon  would  look  far  better  at  the  Hermitage. " 
,    Although  the  organist  did  not  much  care  for  Phil  Ransford's 
society,  he  could  not  well  resist  a  hint  so  pointedly  given. 

"  Have  one  cut  now — stay  and  sup  with  us,"  said  the  old  man. 

"I  should  just  be  in  time  for  dinner  at  home,"  said  Phil;  "but 
salmon  cutlets  and  Hermitage  society  ! — Mr.  Waller,  I  accept  your 
most  kind  invitation." 

"  That  is  well,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Mary,  my  love,  order  the 

Phil  Ransford  watched  the  young  lady  as  she  left  the  room,  and 
Clytie  answered  his  admiring  gaze  with  a  look  of  conscious  triumph. 
There  was  hardly  a  girl  in  Dunelm  who  would  not  have  accepted 
Phil  Ransford  as  a  lover.  He  was  even  freely  admitted  to  the 
Cathedral  society.  Educated  at  Harrow  and  Cambridge,  young 
Ransford  had  a  double  claim  to  recognition.  He  had  received  the 
traditional  training  of  a  gentleman,  and  was  rich ;  he  excelled  in 
manly  sports,  danced  like  an  angel  according  to  several  flighty 
young  things  of  forty,  was  a  member  of  the  Reform,  and  would 
some  day,  if  he  chose,  sit  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Luke  Waller 
was  therefore  somewhat  flattered  at  Mr.  Ransford's  attentions,  and 
Clytie  encouraged  them,  because  she  rather  enjoyed  the  jealousy 
and  spitefulness  of  the  Cathedral  set  who  systematically  kept  her 
out  of  the  society  of  the  Close.  But  old  Waller  never  left  Ransford 
and  Clytie  alone;  he  had  twice  refused  to  allow  Phil  to  see  her 
home  from  those  outside  evening  parties  at  which  they  occasionally 
met ;  but  he  had  not  been  able  to  prevent  Phil  Ransford  from 
stopping  her  now  and  then  in  the  quiet  old  streets,  and  talking  to 
her.  Dunelm  was  such  a  dear  silent  old  city  that  two  people  might 
step  aside  into  an  odd  nook  or  corner,  in  the  shadow  of  an  old 
archway,  or  beneath  an  old  tree,  and  talk  to  each  other  for  an  hour 
without  being  seen  by  any  one.  But  it  was  enough  for  the  old  city 
if  the  gossips  or  lovers  were  seen  by  one  person  ;  the  incident  was 
soon  reported ;  it  was  not  necessary  to  employ  the  town  crier,  though 
Dunelm  went  to  the  expense  of  having  such  an  officer.  Phil  Rans- 
ford frequently  flung  himself  in  the  way  of  Clytie,  and  Tom  Mayfield 
was  jealous  of  him.  Ransford  had  six  months'  start  of  the  young 
student.  He  made  a  sort  of  declaration  of  love  to  the  lady  four 
weeks  before  that  vision  of  beauty  appeared  to  Tom,  recalling  to  his 

Clytie.  24 1 

fancy  his  favourite  bust  of  Clytie  which  was  the  only  ornament  in 
his  little  room  near  St.  Cuthbert's  gateway,  where  they  rested  the 
mythical  bones  of  the  patron  saint  in  the  mythical  days  oY  old. 


"friends  or  foes?'' 

"  I  love  you,"  said  Tom  Mayfield.  "  You  round,  bewitching 
l)eauty ;  if  you  will  only  be  mine  /  will  never  desert  you,  like  the  fool 
in  the  story." 

He  was  addressing  a  large  Parian  bust  of  Clytie.  It  stood  upon 
his  table  amidst  a  pile  of  books  and  examination  papers. 

"  I  am  not  rich  like  that  coarse,  vulgar  Ransford ;  but  I  have  a 
heart  that  is  true  and  faithful ;  I  never  loved  before  ;  I  have  an  inde- 
pendent income  of  two  hundred  a  year ;  I  am  an  orphan ;  I  mean  to 
go  to  the  Bar,  and  with  you  by  my  side  I  will  make  a  name  and  for- 
tune. " 

He  moved  the  bust  round  and  put  his  hand  upon  it. 

"  My  dear  Clytie  !  I  am  only  twenty-two.  They  tell  me  you  are 
seventeen.  Our  ages  fit  admirably.  The  man  should  be  a  few  years 
older  than  the  woman.  I  am  sufficiently  romantic  to  be  an  interest- 
ing lover,  but  a  practical  fellow  for  all  that.  I  should  take  care  of 
you  and  protect  you;  and  I  should  be  proud  of  you.  I  want  no 
money  with  you,  and  your  dear  old  grandfather  shall  always  have  a 
seat  in  the  ingle-nook." 

The  light  fell  upon  the  statue  ;  fell  tenderly  upon  the  wavy  hair ; 
upon  the  full  round  bosom.  Tom  Mayfield  looked  at  it  and 

"  Let  me  see,"  he  said,  taking  up  a  copy  of  Lempriere,  "  who  were 
you  in  the  classic  days?  A  daughter  of  Oceanus  and  Tethys, 
beloved  by  Apollo,  who  deserted  you  for  Leucothea.  You  pined 
away  and  were  changed  into  a  sunflower,  and  you  still  turn  to  the  sun 
as  in  pledge  of  your  love.  Turn  to  me,  my  dear  Clytie !  Let  me  be 
your  sun  ;  I  will  always  shine  upon  you,  always  be  warm  and  gentle 
and  loving." 

He  moved  the  figure  again,  that  he  might  contemplate  the  three- 
quarter  face. 

"  Upon  my  soul  it  is  a  marvellous  likeness  !  What  a  lovely,  dreamy 
face  it  is  ! " 

Then  he  turned  over  again  the  pages  of  the  dictionary. 

"  There  was  another  Clytie.      What !    A  concubine  of  Amyntor, 

24.2  The  GentUrnatis  Magazine. 

son  of  Phrastor,  whose   calumny  caused  Amyntor  to  put  out  the 
eyes  of  his  falsely  accused  son  Phoenix ! " 

The  young  student  took  up  a  pen  and  blotted  from  the  book  all 
the  other  Clyties  except  the  one  beloved  of  Apollo. 

"  A  concubine  indeed  !  Perish  the  thought  Heaven  would  not 
permit  it.  But  they  call  Ransford  a  woman-killer.  They  say  he  is  a 
very  gay  fellow  in  town ;  they  say  he  lured  that  pretty  daughter  of 
old  Pirn  the  verger  to  London.  Yes,  now  I  remember  the  story ;  it 
killed  the  old  man." 

He  paced  the  room. 

"  Why  do  these  dark  thoughts  come  into  my  mind  just  now  ?  A 
hint  of  suspicion,  even  in  fancy,  is  an  insult  to  her.  My  very  soul 
blushes  at  it  By  heavens,  if  Ransford  harboured  a  dishonourable 
thought  against  her  I  would  kill  him  like  a  dog ! " 

A  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Philip  Ransford,"  said  the  servant. 

Tom  May  field  started  and  rubbed  his  eyes  as  if  he  were  in  a 

"  You  are  surprised  to  see  me,"  said  Phil. 

Tom  did  not  speak. 

"  You  are  more  than  surprised ;  my  visit  does  not  seem  agreeable 
to  you." 

"  Pray  forgive  me,"  said  the  student,  recovering  his  self-possession. 
"My  mind  was  taken  up  just  then  with  a  very  knotty  and  curious 

"  Ah,  a  problem  in  Euclid  ?  " 

"  No  ;  a  supposititious  incident  cropping  up  out  of  a  classical  story. 
Take  a  seat,  Mr.  Ransford." 

"  May  I  smoke  ?  "  asked  Phil,  producing  a  cigar  case. 

"  By  all  means ;  I  will  light  up  too." 

Tom  filled  his  favourite  meerschaum ;  Phil  Ransford  lighted  a 

"  I  ventured  to  call  as  I  was  passing  to  ask  if  you  would  come 
and  dine  with  us  to-morrow;  I  expect  a  friend  or  two  in  a  quiet  way — 
not  a  dinner  party,  you  know — would  have  done  the  formal  thing,  but 
you  said  you  were  not  a  stickler  for  ceremonies  when  I  met  you  at  the 
Deans  the  other  evening,  and,  as  I  saw  your  lamp  gleaming  out  and 
attracting  all  the  moths  in  the  Green  to  your  window,  I  determined 
all  in  a  minute  to  drop  in  upon  you." 

"  Very  kind  of  you,"  said  Tom.  "  I  will  come ;  I  was  thinking  of 
you  when  you  knocked  at  the  door.  Do  you  believe  in  spiritualism?" 

"  No." 

Clytie.  243 

"  Nor  I."      . 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Don't  know.  How  do  you  account  for  those  startling  coinci- 
dences which  occur  to  all  of  us?  For  example,  the  moment  you  were 
near  my  rooms  I  began  to  think  of  you.  It  was  curious  that  you 
should  step  in  just  as  I  was  registering  a  sort  of  vow  concerning  you." 

"  Concerning  me?  a  vow?"  said  Mr.  Ransford,  taking  his  cigar  from 
his  mouth. 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom  Mayfield,  smoking  steadily.  "  Odd,  is  it  not,  and 
I  have  only  known  you  about  six  weeks  ?  " 

"Are  you  joking?" 

"No,"  said  Tom,  "you  have  no  idea  what  an  interest  I  take  in 

"  And  you  were  thinking  of  me  the  moment  I  entered  ?  " 

"  I  was." 

"  Did  I  form  part  of  the  problem  you  were  trying  to  solve  ?  n 

"  You  did." 

Phil  Ransford  smiled  and  relighted  his  cigar  with  affected  calm- 
ness. Tom  Mayfield  looked  straight  at  him  with  a  quiet  com- 
posure, but  not  unkindly. 

"Will  yoiuexplain ? "  said  Mr.  Ransford. 

"  Some  other  time,"  said  Tom  Mayfield. 

"  No  time  like  the  present,"  replied  Phil,  who  mentally  measured 
his  own  strength  against  Tom's,  and  felt  that  the  odds  were  in  his 

"  Some  other  time,"  said  Tom  firmly.  "  At  what  hour  do  you  dine?" 

"  Six ;  but  look  here,  don't  you  know,  there  is  something  in  your 
manner  which  is  mysterious  and  not  altogether  friendly — let  us 
understand  each  other." 

"  We  do,  perfectly,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Tom,  knocking  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe.  "  And  I  hope  we  shall  be  good  friends ;  they  tell  me 
your  wine  is  even  finer  than  the  Dean's.  Did  I  not  see  you  starting 
on  a  fishing  excursion  this  morning?" 

"You  did.  I  called  on  old  Waller  as  I  came  back,  and  emptied 
my  creel  at  the  Hermitage." 

Tom  winced,  but  the  smoke  hid  his  face  sufficiently  to  prevent 
Phil  Ransford  from  noticing  the  effect  of  his  shot 

"Ah,  you  visit  at  the  Hermitage?" 

"  Occasionally." 

"  What  will  you  drink  ?" 

"  Nothing,  thank  you." 

"  Sure  !     Have  some  claret  ?" 

244  The  Gmtlemans  Magazine. 

"  No,  thank  you ;  I  must  get  home.  I  will  not  keep  you  from  your 
studies  any  longer.  I  used  to  burn  the  midnight  oil  myself.  Good 
night.  To-morrow  at  six,  then,  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  yes,"  said  Tom.     "  Good  night." 

"  I  must  not  be  rash,"  said  Tom,  when  he  had  shut  the  door.  "  I 
don't  like  him,  Clytie  !     I  register  that  vow  in  thy  name !" 

"  Humph  !"  grunted  Phil  Ransford,  as  he  strode  over  the  Green, 
"  that  was  the  bust  on  his  table.  It's  devilish  like;  never  saw  such  a 
portrait  He  was  thinking  of  me,  was  he  ?  And  was  thinking  what 
might  be  the  result  of  a  supposititious  incident  in  real  life.  There  was 
an  ugly  look  in  his  eyes.  Ah  !  ah  !  He's  as  jealous  as  a  Turk,  and 
without  the  right  to  be.  She  says  she  has  only  spoken  to  him  twice. 
We  shall  see  what  we  shall  see.  I'll  either  be  friend  or  foe,  whichever 
lie  likes.  Heaven  help  him  if  he  shows  fight.  I'll  soon  make  Dunelm 
too  hot  for  him  ! — or  London  either,  for  that  matter — damned 
pauper  !'' 




Tom  Mayfieij)  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Ransford  family  at 
dinner,  as  arranged.  They  were  good  sort  of  people  in  their  way, 
l>elieved  in  money,  and  were  at  the  same  time  proud  of  Phil  having 
worn  a  gown.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  you  should  have  done 
so,  to  get  into  the  inner  circle  of  Dunelm  society.  When  you  did 
get  there,  it  was  not  much  to  boast  of;  still,  it  was  the  thing  to  be 
there,  and  the  Dean  was  a  grand  old  boy  who  understood  the  secret 
of  dining,  and  knew  by  heart  and  taste  the  best  port  wine  vintages. 

Phil  Ransford  had  a  father  and  mother  and  some  brothers  and 
sisters,  but  it  is  not  necessary  to  introduce  them  here.  They  treated 
Tom  Mayfield  with  deference  and  respect ;  he  had  a  way  of  com- 
manding both,  and  especially  when  Money  stood  up  and  challenged 
Intellect.  Phil  was  courteous  and  hospitable,  and  politely  considerate 
in  his  attentions  to  the  young  student. 

"Why  is  she  not  invited  to  his  house?"  Tom  asked  himself, 
as  he  walked  to  his  chambers  from  the  big  house  on  the  hilL  "  Why 
do  not  his  sisters  call  upon  her  ?  She  is  the  granddaughter  of  a  pro- 
fessional man.  Old  Waller  is  clever  too,  behaves  himself  like  a 
gentleman,  dines  now  and  then  with  the  Dean,  was  introduced  to  the 
Dean  and  Chapter  by  a  lord." 

Tom  puzzled  himself  with  a  variety  of  questions  all  the  way  home, 
and  when  he  got  there  he  again  addressed  himself  to  Clytie. 

Clyhc.  245 

"  Well,  madame,  I've  been  to  his  house ;  it  is  a  fine  place,  lots  of 
old  oak  furniture  and  pictures,  expensive  pictures — very  bad  though, 
some  of  them ;  vulgar  old  dog  his  father ;  thinks  money  everything ; 
but  they  all  think  that ;  I  quoted  a  few  great  men  who  were  noto- 
riously poor ;  but  Phil  Ransford  would  be  friends." 

Tom  lighted  his  pipe  and  drew  down  the  blinds. 

"  You  don't  think  money  can  do  everything  ?  Do  you,  my  love  ? 
I  shall  ask  you  in  person  soon.  I  am  going  to  be  rash,  because  I 
love  you  very  much.  I  only  went  to  that  Cotton  house  to  see  what 
he  was  like  at  home,  to  study  him,  to  find  him  out ;  and  I  do  not 
like  him,  Clytie ;  no,  my  dear  girl,  he  is  not  what  we  men  call  straight. 
You  have  not  been  to  his  house.  Mrs.  Ransford  does  not  know  you ; 
the  Misses  Ransford  don't — I  asked  them.  They  do  not  think  you 
are  beautiful ;  they  professed  not  even  to  think  you  pretty ;  they  had 
seen  you  often,  oh,  yes,  at  the  Cathedral  and  at  St.  Bride's ;  it  is  Sunday 
to-morrow,  and  I  shall  be  at  your  church  in  the  morning,  and  I  shall 
walk  home  with  you — if  possible." 

The  next  day  was  a  hot,  lazy  summer  Sunday.  All  nature  seemed 
to  be  resting.  The  bells  which  chimed  for  service  sounded  as  if  they 
were  dressed  up  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  and  only  leaned  upon  their 
elbows  and  simpered  what  they  had  to  say.  The  sun  slept  on  the 
river,  hot  and  rosy,  like  an  infant.  The  water  lay  tranquilly  beneath  the 
trees.  Shadows  of  towers  and  gables  and  moss-covered  walls  fell 
here  and  there,  brown  and  motionless.  The  only  stir  seemed  to  be 
a  sort  of  sunny  pulsation  of  the  air.  The  birds  were  still.  A  bee 
or  butterfly  might  be  seen  poised  on  an  open  flower.  The  laburnum 
and  lilac  near  the  archway  of  the  Prebend's  Bridge  seemed  to  swoon 
with  happiness  in  the  glowing  light.  It  was  a  day  for  love  and 
worship,  for  dreaming,  for  sitting  in  the  shade  of  the  Banks,  for 
standing  inside  the  Cathedral  porch  and  listening  to  the  choristers, 
for  doing  nothing,  and  doing  that  lazily. 

Tom  Mayfield  went  to  St  Bride's  on  that  summer  Sunday  morning, 
and  Luke  Waller  had  one  of  his  musical  dreams  in  the  opening 
voluntary.  When  service  was  over,  Tom  went  straight  to  the  organ- 
loft  The  organist  was  playing  the  congregation  out  When  the  last 
footfall  was  heard,  the  blower,  hot  and  tired,  began  to  let  the  wind 
run  down. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Tom,  slipping  a  shilling  into  his  hand. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  man,  and  up  went  the  indicator. 

The  organist  turned  and  with  a  pleasant  smile  recognised  the  young 

"  Don't  get  up,  sir,"  said  Tom ;  "  pray  go  on.  You  are  just  in  the 
vein.     It  is  a  lovely  bit  of  harmonisation." 

246  The  Gentleman 's  Magazine. 

The  old  man  was  pleased.  His  fingers  pressed  the  ivory  keys  with 
a  loving  fondness.  It  seemed  as  if  he  caressed  them,  and  they 
responded  with  tender  voices.  The  music  wandered  about  the  old 
church,  laden  with  the  scent  of  lilac  that  crept  in  from  an  adjacent 
garden.  A  soft  tread  and  a  rustle  of  silk  came  up  the  gallery  stairs, 
and  presently  the  beauty  of  the  Hermitage  drew  the  organ-loft  curtains 
and  stood  by  the  player.  She  moved  with  graceful  condescension  to 
Tom  Mayfield,  whose  eyes  responded,  full  of  respect  and  love, 
Clytie  laid  her  hand  upon  her  grandfather's  shoulder. 

"  Come,  grandfather  dear,  we  shall  not  have  time  for  our  little 

In  Dunelm  everybody  walked  a  little  way  after  morning  church 
until  dinner-time,  which  on  Sundays  with  all  classes  was  in  the  middle 
of  the  day. 

The  old  man  took  her  hand  in  his  right  hand,  finishing  his  extem- 
pore performance  with  the  left ;  then  he  put  in  the  stops  one  after 
the  other,  until  the  music  seemed  to  go  far  away  in  the  distance, 
finishing  in  a  sort  of  harmonic  sigh. 

"Beautiful!"  exclaimed  the  young-  student     "A  most  touching 
finale.     There  is  nothing  like  the  minor  key." 
Clytie  smiled  approvingly. 

"May  I  walk  a  little  way  with  you,  Mr.  Waller?"  Tom  asked, 
looking  all  the  time  at  the  lady. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "  by  all  means ;  we  shall  only  stroll 
in  the  shade  of  the  trees,  through  the  Banks,  round  over  the  Bridge, 
and  then  home." 

The  lady  was  dressed  with  becoming  taste.  A  light,  thin  silk  dress 
— lilac  flowers  on  a  creamy  ground — a  Brussels-lace  pellerine,  a  chip 
bonnet  trimmed  with  lilac  flowers,  light  gloves,  and  her  dress  slightly 
open  at  the  neck  so  that  you  saw  the  full  throat,  purer  in  shade  and 
whiteness  than  the  small  pearl  brooch  that  rested  there.  She  was 
indeed  supremely  beautiful,  this  belle  of  the  northern  city.  No 
wonder  match-making  mammas  tried  to  keep  her  out  of  the  inner 
ring  of  Dunelm  society.  Their  task  was  not  altogether  an  easy  one. 
Tom  Mayfield  now  felt  how  lonely  he  was.  If  his  father  and  mother 
had  been  alive,  they  should  have  called  upon  her,  and  given  him  the 
right  to  invite  the  organist  and  his  grand- daughter  home. 

Tom  walked  by  her  side  in  the  Banks,  and  talked  to  her  with  his 
voice  specially  attuned  to  her  ear.  She  knew  that  he  loved  her. 
She  could  read  it  in  every  glance  of  his  eye.  She  tried  to  justify  his 
adrriration.  It  made  her  happy  to  be  admired.  Even  in  church  she 
enjoyed  the  silent  homage  of  the  people.      A  few  of  the  Dunelm 

C lytic  24  7 

women  were  as  mad  about  her  as  the  men ;  she  was  so  sweet 
and  pretty.  Clytie  knew  people  turned  round  to  look  at  her. 
She  seemed  to  fill  the  street ;  her  soft  sympathetic  eyes,  her  perfectly 
oval  face,  her  red  lips,  her  brown  wavy  hair ;  her  exquisite  figure, 
round  and  full,  like  the  ideal  woman  of  a  painter's  dream  ;  her  gentle 
dove-like  manner,  impressed  beholders  as  if  they  had  seen  a  vision 
of  beauty ;  and  the  old  grey  walls  of  the  city  set  off  the  picture ;  she 
was  so  bright  and  graceful — a  contrast  to  the  big  solemn  houses  and 
the  quaint  crumbling  towers. 

Passing  over  Prebend's  Bridge  they  met  the  Ransfords ;  old 
Ransford,  Mrs.  Ransford,  the  sisters,  young  Ransford,  and  Phil. 
The  whole  family  swept  by,  receiving  with  a  vulgar  effort  at  hauteur, 
intended  for  Clytie,  the  polite  recognition  of  Mr.  Mayfield.  When 
the  flood  of  silk  and  muslin  and  perfume  had  passed,  the  Wallers 
and  Tom  discovered  that  Phil  Ransford  was  left  behind.  He 
shook  hands  with  Clytie,  looked  through  Tom  Mayfield  (who 
met  his  gaze  with  calm  defiance),  and  told  Mr.  Waller  that  it 
was  awfully  hot.  Luke  said  he  rather  thought  it  was  warmer 
than  usual,  but  that  was  to  be  expected  at  this  time  of  the  year. 
Clytie  seemed  a  little  confused,  but  presently  recovered  and 
enjoyed  her  triumph.  She  saw  that  the  two  men  were  jealous, 
and  she  really  did  not  care  a  button  for  either  of  them.  If  she  had 
any  choice  between  the  two,  the  balance  of  liking  was  in  Phil 
Ransford's  favour.  He  was  rich,  very  rich  she  understood ;  and  he 
had  already  made  her  several  valuable  presents.  Among  these  was 
a  necklet  of  pearls  with  a  diamond  clasp.  She  had  not  dared  to  show 
it  to  her  grandfather,  because  somehow  she  had  felt  that  she  ought 
not  to  have  accepted  so  costly  a  gift.  She  had,  however,  done  an 
odd  thing  :  one  day  when  she  was  on  a  visit  at  a  friend  of  Luke's,  a 
widow  at  Newcastle,  she  had  called  upon  a  jeweller  there  and  asked 
him  the  value  of  the  necklet  He  said  it  was  worth  a  hundred  and 
fifty  guineas  ;  and  from  that  moment  Phil  Ransford  seemed  to  have 
some  special  claim  upon  her,  some  mysterious  authority.  She  had 
admitted  to  herself  a  peculiar  sense  of  obligation  which  she  could 
not  explain ;  it  kindled  a  new  desire  within  her,  an  ambition  which 
for  the  time  got  possession  of  her,  body  and  soul.  She  would 
like  to  be  a  fine  lady,  a  queen  of  fashion  and  beauty,  a  goddess  in  that 
grand  society  of  wealth  and  loveliness,  of  show  and  pomp,  which  Phil 
Ransford  had  described  to  her  as  existing  in  London,  where  she 
ought  to  live.  All  this  was  in  her  mind  when  she  looked  at  Tom 
Mayfield  and  Phil  Ransford  on  this  summer  Sunday.  The  new,  well- 
fitting  clqthes  of  her  rich  admirer,  his  heavy  watch-guard,  his  silver- 

248  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

headed  cane,  his  gloves,  his  shiny  hat,  his  general  air  of  wealth, 
told  in  her  inexperienced  mind  against  Tom  Mayfield's  dingy 
college  gown  and  grey  trousers.  Moreover,  Tom  talked  of  books, 
of  poetry,  of  music,  and  the  earnestness  of  life ;  while  Phil  was  full 
of  flower  shows,  archery  meetings,  and  the  pretty  frivolities  of 

Phil  walked  with  the  party  to  the  Hermitage,  and  monopolised  a 
great  deal  of  Clyde's  attention ;  and  he  did  it  with  an  air  of  authority 
that  did  not  even  escape  the  notice  of  Grandfather  Waller,  who 
resolved  in  his  own  mind  to  speak  about  it  to  Clytie  before  the  day 
was  over. 

Meanwhile  the  two  young  men  left  the  Wallers  at  the  front  door  of 
the  Hermitage,  and  walked  together  along  the  Bailey  to  Tom  May- 
field's  rooms.  They  did  not  speak  until  they  were  within  the  welcome 
shadow  of  St.  Cuthbert's  Gateway,  and  then  Phil  Ransford  said, 

"  Mr.  Mayfield,  you  and  I  must  have  a  serious  conversation." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Tom,  looking  up  calmly  into  the  face  of  his 
stalwart  companion. 

"  A  serious  conversation,"  Phil  repeated. 

"  When  you  please,"  said  Tom. 

"  To-morrow?" 

"  Yes." 

"Shall  I  call  upon  you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  At  eight  to-morrow  night  ?  " 

"  That  will  suit  me." 

" It  is  an  engagement  then?" 

"  By  all  means." 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Phil,  and  the  two  parted. 

The  reader  will  already  have  gleaned  that  Tom  did  not  live  in 
college.  He  preferred  an  independent  existence  outside.  His  little 
bachelor  dinner  was  waiting  for  him  as  he  entered  his  room.  He 
ate  it  thoughtfully,  and,  lighting  his  pipe  immediately  afterwards,  sat 
near  the  window  where  he  could  see  the  College  Green  and  hear  the 
bees  humming  in  the  lime  trees.  He  had  turned  his  back  upon  his 
favourite  bust,  but  he  was  questioning  his  own  heart  about  the  living 
prototype,  and  Phil  Ransford  seemed  to  him  like  a  dark,  ugly  shadow 
in  the  sunshine.  He  sat  dreaming  until  the  Cathedral  chimes  lazily 
invited  Dunelm  to  afternoon  service ;  Dunelm  responded  with 
suitable  lethargy.  Tom  Mayfield  laid  down  his  pipe,  and  casting 
a  longing  look  at  the  white  unconscious  statue,  slipped  out  upon  the 
Green,  glided  through  the  cloisters,  and  found  rest  for  his  troubled 
thoughts  in  the  soft,  soothing,  dreamy  music  of  the  Cathedral  choir. 

Clytie.  249 



There  was  a  square,  old-fashioned  garden  at  the  Hermitage.  It 
was  shut  in  by  high  walls  covered  with  ivy.  The  garden  beds  were 
marked  out  by  tall  boundaries  of  box-wood.  The  flowers  were  old- 
fashioned  and  sweet  beyond  description.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
garden  there  was  a  narrow  terrace,  upon  which  stood  a  summer-house, 
a  round  sort  of  chalet,  covered  with  ivy,  with  which  half  a  dozen  other 
creepers  struggled  for  recognition.  Terrace  and  summer-house  over- 
looked a  broad  expanse  of  ornamental  lawn  belonging  to  the  next 
house,  which  in  its  turn  was  shut  in  by  the  River  Wear.  Nothing 
could  be  more  picturesque  than  this  bit  of  Dunelm.  Occasionally 
on  summer  afternoons  the  Wallers  drank  tea  on  the  terrace,  the  old 
man  entertaining  his  grand-daughter  with  his  violin  and  with  stories 
of  the  great  world  of  London,  in  which  she  took  an  inextinguishable 

"  After  dinner,  Mary,  let  the  servant  go  out,  and  lock  the  door  ; 
we  will  have  a  quiet  hour  in  the  summer-house  before  evening  service ; 
if  there  are  callers,  they  will  think  we  are  out  too." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Clytie ;  but  after  dinner  she  seemed  loth  to  go  ; 
and  when  they  were  alone  in  the  house  she  sat  down  to  the  piano, 
and  commenced  to  sing. 

"  Now,  my  pet,  come  along,"  said  the  old  man,  putting  her  garden 
hat  upon  her  head — "  come  along  ;  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

He  took  her  arm,  and  put  it  within  his  own,  and  they  went  together 
to  the  summer-house. 

"There ;  now  we  can  have  a  good  long  talk,"  said  the  old  man, 
placing  a  low  rush  chair  for  the  young  girl,  and  patting  her  cheek  as 
she  sat  down  and  looked  inquiringly  at  him. 

"  You  know  how  dearly  I  love  you,"  lie  said. 

"  My  dear  grandfather !" 

"  That  I  would  willingly  lay  my  life  down  for  you — sit  still,  my 
darling — that  no  sacrifice  would  be  too  great  for  me  to  make  to 
secure  your  happiness." 

"Dear  grandfather,  what  have  I  done  that  you  should  think  it 
necessary  to  say  this  ?"  asked  Clytie,  almost  in  tears. 

"  Nothing,  love  ;  nothing.  Mr.  Philip  Ransford  evidently  admires 
you  very  much.  I  noticed  that  to-day  when  you  saw  him  you 
changed  colour ;  and  I  thought  he  seemed  more  familiar  in  his 
manner  than  our  acquaintance  with  him  warranted." 

250  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Clytie  did  not  speak.  She  had  the  necklet  in  her  pocket;  it 
seemed  to  burn  her  hand  that  lay  upon  it 

"  Now,  I  would  never  stand  between  you  and  the  choice  of  your 
heart ;  but  I  do  not  like  Mr.  Ransford ;  that  is,  I  do  not  like 
him  as  your  admirer.  I  have  no  faith  in  him  as  your  lover;  he 
is  a  mere  butterfly  of  society — a  gay,  frivolous  young  fellow,  who 
looks  at  life  from  a  very  different  point  of  view  to  an  honest,  earnest 

"  He  is  not  much  like  a  butterfly,  dear  grandfather,"  said  Clytie, 

She  had  got  over  her  first  fright,  and  was  now  prepared  to  meet 
her  grandfather  courageously. 

"  Not  so  far  as  gracefulness  and  elegance  go,"  said  Luke,  rather 
pleased  that  Clytie  did  not  appear  to  take  the  matter  seriously. 

"  Mr.  Mayfield  would  do  better  for  that  part;  his  gown  might  serve 
for  wings,  but  it  is  a  pity  it  is  so  old  and  shabby." 

Clytie  laughed  a  little  ringing  laugh  at  her  picture  of  Tom  as  a 

"  You  quizzical  puss,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  you  are  just  like  your 

"  Let  us  talk  about  her,  dear,"  said  Clytie,  promptly.  "  You  never 
talk  about  my  father  and  mother,  though  I  am  always  asking  to  know 
everything  about  them  ;  tell  me  of  my  mother  at  the  opera." 

"  Not  now,  dear,"  said  Luke;  "  by-and-by.  But  this  Mr.  Ransford, 
he  made  me  uncomfortable  this  morning ;  I  don't  like  him." 

"Nor  I,  dear,"  said  Clytie;  "but  we  must  be  civil  to  him." 

"You  don't  like  him?" 

"  Not  I,"  said  Clytie. 

"You  like  Mr.  Mayfield,  then?"  said  Luke,  his  countenance 
changing  to  an  expression  of  pleasant  anticipation. 

"  No ;  no  more  than  I  do  Mr.  Ransford." 

"  Oh,"  said  Luke,  his  face  dropping  again. 

"  I  don't  care  for  any  one  but  you,  dear,"  said  Clytie,  getting  up 
and  flinging  her  arms  round  her  grandfather ;  "  my  dear,  dear  old 
father  and  mother  and  grandfather  and  everything ;  surely  you  don't 
want  me  to  like  some  one  else  and  leave  you  ?  " 

"My  own  darling,"  said  the  old  man,  his  voice  trembling  with 
emotion ;  "  I  could  part  with  you,  if  it  were  necessary,  to  be  the  wife 
of  a  good,  true  man ;  but  even  that  would  try  me  sorely.  But— oh, 
my  love,  do  not  let  us  talk  of  it ;  you  will  never  leave  me ;  you  will 
never  leave  your  dear  old  grandfather!" 

Luke  laid  his  hand  upon  the  girl's  shoulder,  and  wept. 

C lytic  251 

"  Never,  dear,  never,"  said  the  girl,  sobbing,  and  secretly  vowing  to 
throw  that  burning  necklace  into  the  river. 

"There,  there,  I  am  an  old  fool,"»  said  Luke ;  "forgive  me,  my 
child ;  let  us  go  into  the  house  and  have  some  music  ;  we  have  had 
enough  of  this ;  but  promise,  love,  to  have  no  secrets  from  me.  I 
can  advise  you  better  than  all  the  world,  for  I  love  you  better." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Clytie. 

"  Your  mother  died  broken-hearted,  my  child,  because  she  trusted 
to  a  young  gay  nobleman,  in  whom  she  believed  rather  than  listen  to 
me,  her  father  who  loved  her  with  all  his  soul." 

"  My  poor  mother  !"  said  Clytie;  "sit  down,  grandfather,  and  tell 
me  of  her,  all  from  the  first ;  you  tell  me  something  new  every  time 
we  talk  of  her." 

"  It  was  not  her  fault  altogether,  poor  dear,"  said  the  old  manias 
if  he  were  talking  to  himself ;  "  I  ought  not  to  have  allowed  her  to 
go  on  the  stage.  It  was  her  mother's  dying  request  that  she  should 
not,  but  I  disregarded  that.  As  time  wore  on  the  dying  request 
seemed  to  get  weaker  and  weaker,  and  Mary  had  wondrous  powers, 
and  no  other  wish  in  life.  When  she  appeared  London  went  mad 
about  her ;  a  young  nobleman  fell  madly  in  love  with  her,  he  followed 
her  everywhere,  she  went  away  with  him  to  Paris,  she  wrote  and  told 
me  she  was  married,  but  secretly.  I  heard  from  her  next  at  Rome, 
then  from  Florence,  next  from  St.  Petersburg.  This  consumed  many 
months,  and  then  I  no  longer  heard  of  her.  I  went  to  the  young 
man's  father,  a  lord  ;  he  ordered  me  to  be  thrust  into  the  street,  up- 
braided me  that  my  daughter  had  disgraced  his  son,  threatened  to 
lock  me  up.  But  there,  you  know  the  story ;  let  us  go  into  the 

"  No,  dear,  tell7  it  to  me  again — it  will  do  me  good,"  said  Clytie, 
her  hand  in  her  pocket  trying  to  crush  those  scorching  pearls. 

"  I  conducted  the  orchestra  at  the  Olympic,  but  my  health  failed. 
I  gave  up  everything.  I  wrote  everywhere,  inquired  everywhere,  but 
could  learn  nothing  of  my  child.  A  year  had  passed  away,  when  I  got 
a  letter  from  Boulogne.  Mary  was  ill  there,  sick  unto  death.  Her 
husband,  she  said,  had  deserted  her ;  she  was  on  her  way  home  with 
her  baby,  but  had  been  taken  ill  at  Boulogne.  I  hastened  thither,  I 
found  her  ;  my  poor  darling,  I  did  not  know  her,  only  her  soft  sweet 
voice  was  unchanged ;  she  was  dying  of  the  small-pox  " 

Clytie  shuddered ;  despite  the  hot,  burning  sun,  a  chill  ran  through 
her  veins. 

"  She  died  in  my  arms.  Heaven  would  not  let  me  go  with  her, 
because  there  was  her  child  for  me  to  take  care  of— you,  my  darling. 

352  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

I  buried  her  there,  and  thought  my  heart  was  in  her  grave  ;  but  God 
has  been  good;  we  are  happy  here,  you  and  I,  my  darling,  in  this  dear 
old  city,  where  we  can  dream  of  the  past  and  prepare  ourselves  for 
the  better  land,  where  we  shall  meet  those  we  loved,  pure  and  beauti- 
ful as  we  knew  them  when  they  were  young." 

"  Come  into  the  house  now,  dear,"  said  Clytie,  with  unfeigned 
tenderness,  and  leading  the  old  man  as  if  he  were  a  child. 

"  But  he  was  punished ! "  suddenly  exclaimed  Luke,  "  punished. 
Her  betrayer  died  miserably,  stabbed  in  a  brawl  at  Homburg,  killed 
like  a  dog;  and  I  went  to  his  father  again,  went  to  gloat  over 
him,  to  scoff  at  his  misery;  but  oh,  my  love,  he  was  broken 
down,  he  was  torn  with  grief  like  a  common  man,  and  when  he  heard 
my  story  he  grasped  my  hand,  said  we  would  be  friends,  and  I  know 
him  now,  dear,  as  the  best  and  most  kind-hearted  of  men.  He  is 
wifeless,  childless.  So  far  as  I  could  I  traced  your  mother  in  her 
journey  on  the  Continent  and  used  every  possible  exertion  to  obtain 
proofs  of  her  marriage,  but  without  avail.  Those  proofs  would  make 
you  a  lady  of  title  " 

Clytie's  heart  beat  wildly. 

"  His  lordship  would  acknowledge  you  as  his  daughter." 

"  We  should  be  rich,  and  live  in  the  great  city,"  said  Clytie,  her 
eyes  sparkling. 

"  You  would  be  rich,  and  a  great  lady ;  yes,"  said  Mr.  Waller ; 
"but  you  might  not  be  happy,  not  half  so  happy  as  you  are  here." 

"  No.  And  why  do  I  not  see  the  lord  who  is  my  other  grand- 

"Ah  !  you  will  never  see  him,  dear — I  have  promised  it — unless 
we  can  prove  your  mother's  marriage,  which  is  the  only  subject  of 
difference  between  us.  He  is  as  sure  that  his  son  did  not  marry  her 
as  I  am  convinced  he  did.  His  lordship  learnt  a  great  deal  about 
his  son's  life  that  I  did  not  know  of.  It  was  the  wild,  reckless, 
purposeless  life  of  a  libertine,  and  his  end  was  in  keeping  with  it." 

'*  Poor,  dear  mother !  And  you,  dear,  how  you  must  have 

"  I  should  not  tell  you  all  these  sad  things,  my  child,  only  that 
they  will  be  a  warning  to  you  only  to  trust  in  me — not  to  have  secrets 
from  me ;  and  now  that  I  know  you  do  not  care  for  this  Ransford, 
I  will  tell  you  that  I  dislike  him  ;  I  believe  he  is  a  villain — a  heartless, 
vain  fellow.     Let  us  avoid  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Clytie ;  and  she  regretted  that  she  was  not  standing 
on  Prebend's  Bridge  that  she  might  hurl  his  presents  into  the  river. 

But  at  night,  when  she  found  a  note  inside  her  Prayer-book  at 

Clytie.  253 

church  as  she  had  found  twice  before,  she  slipped  it  into  her  pocket, 
thinking  she  would  see  what  he  had  to  say  this  last  time,  and  then 
burn  his  letters,  and  either  fling  his  jewels  into  the  river  or  send  them 
back  to  him.  The  pew-opener  at  St.  Bride's  had  been  an  old  servant 
of  Ransford's  father,  and  he  saw  no  harm,  so  long  as  Miss  Waller 
made  no  complaint,  in  complying  with  Phil's  wishes  about  the  Prayer- 
book.  Clytie  heard  but  little  of  the  church  service  that  night.  A 
crowd  of  conflicting  thoughts  and  fancies  filled  her  bewildered  brain. 
She  loved  her  grandfather,  but  after  all  she  could  not  help  thinking 
that  she  lived  a  very  humdrum  life  at  Dunelm.  The  daughter  of  an 
-actress,  the  child  of  a  lord's  son,  how  could  she  settle  down  to  the 
ways  of  toadying  citizens  and  stuck-up  parsons'  wives  ?  Then  she 
tried  to  pray  for  guidance,  for  content — tried  to  seek  consolation  and 
relief  in  the  responses  of  the  Litany ;  but  she  had  heard  all  this  so 
often,  had  joined  in  it  so  long  as  a  matter  pf  course,  that  she  could 
find  no  pathos  in  it,  no  stirring  appeal  to  her  heart;  her  fancy 
would  go  whirling  on  among  riches,  and  pomp,  and  fashions,  and 
all  the  vanities  of  the  world ;  and  if  Phil  Ransford  married  her  she 
thought  how  she  could  go  to  London  during  the  season,  and  be  a  fine 
lady  in  Dunelm  too.  Of  course  he  would  marry  her ;  she  had  no 
doubt  about  that.  Her  only  difficulty  was  that  she  did  not  love 
him.  The  preacher  that  night  held  forth  against  fashion  and  dress, 
against  money,  against  pleasure,  against  balls  and  parties,  against 
everything  which  in  Clyde's  opinion  must  give  zest  to  life.  He  said 
those  who  were  of  the  world  could  never  go  to  heaven.  A  very 
high  Churchman,  he  contrasted  the  life  of  a  Sister  of  Mercy  with 
that  of  a  young  lady  of  fashion,  and  the  comparison  was  altogether 
unfavourable  to  Clytie,  whose  spirit  revolting  against  the  preacher, 
she  felt  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  really  good ;  but  when  he 
uttered  the  benediction,  and  the  organ  pealed  out  in  grand  and  soul- 
stirring  tones,  she  fell  upon  her  knees  and  prayed  earnestly,  and  the 
tears  coming  to  her  eyes,  she  felt  better,  and  hoped  she  was  not  so 
wicked  as  she  had  seemed  to  be,  nor  so  wicked  as  the  parson  evi- 
dently believed  she  was.  Yet  she  went  home  with  Phil  Ransford's 
letter,  and  she  did  not  throw  the  pearl  and  diamond  necklace  into 
the  Wear. 

(To  be  continued.) 

Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  T 

Three  Months  with  a  "  Lion 


CALAMITY  which  occurred  at  Bolton  not  very  long 
ago,  by  which  the  popular  one-armed  McCarty,  the 
"  Lion  King  "  of  Mrs.  Manders's  Travelling  Menagerie 
(a  title  as  absurd  as  it  was  presumptuous),  lost  his  life, 
brings  to  my  recollection  certain  events  in  the  career  of  the  original 
and  most  celebrated  of  these  self-styled  subduers  of  the  "  King  of 
the  desert,"  the  relation  of  which  may  prove  interesting  to  Sylvanus 
Urban  and  his  readers,  especially  such  as  study  the  nature  and  habits 
of  animals. 

In  the  year  1838,  happening  to  be  in  Paris,  and  stopping  at 
Lawson's  Hotel  Bedford,  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore*,  I  was  one  morning 
informed  that  a  new  visitor  of  some  notoriety  had  arrived,  and  that 
we  were  to  be  honoured  at  the  table  cThdte  with  the  presence  of  Van 
Amburgh,  the  great  "  Lion  King,"  and  his  coadjutor,  the  head  of  the 
speculation,  Mr.  Titus,  two  thoroughbred  Yankees.  They  had  accepted 
an  engagement  at  the  Porte  St  Martin  Theatre  of  ^2,000  for  the 
ensuing  month.  At  this  time  the  hero  of  my  little  story  was  in  the  zenith 
of  his  gladiatorial  glory,  having  performed,  "himself  and  brutes,* 
several  times  before  Her  Majesty  and  the  Prince  Consort  and  very 
select  audiences  of  the  leading  aristocracy,  besides  having  been  publicly 
hung  on  the  walls  of  the  Royal  Academy,  immortalised  by  the 
inimitable  pencil  of  Sir  Edwin  Landseer,  painted  expressly  for  His 
Grace  the  Duke  of  Wellington — the  "Iron  Duke."  Under  such 
favourable  auspices  you  can  imagine  that  the  "  King's  "  visit  to  Paris 
naturally  created  much  curiosity  and  excitement  among  admirers 
of  the  stirring  and  terrible,  and  at  the  hotel  in  particular  at  which 
he  "descended"  was  looked  upon  as  both  "sensational"  and 

Accident  placed  me  nearly  next  to  him  and  his  party  at  the  dinner 
table,  and  by  a  congenial  spirit  in  the  conversation  we  very  soon  got 
on  good  terms  :  "  liquoring  up  "  together  and  retiring  afterwards  to 
smoke  the  "  calumet  of  familiarity  " — in  short,  in  a  few  days  we  were 
intimate  cronies.  I  quickly  discovered  that  he  was  a  very  stupid, 
ignorant  fellow,  and  for  an  American  totally  devoid  of  that  peculiar 

Three  Months  with  a  Lion  King.  255 

drollery  and   smartness  in  conversation  which,  if  not   always   en- 
lightening, is  comical  and  amusing. 

In  personal  appearance  Van  Amburgh  was,  even  off  the  stage, 
rather  remarkable.  He  stood  about  5  ft  10  in.  in  height,  walked 
extremely  upright,  studiously  so,  and  very  slowly :  a  sort  of  theatrical 
strut,  which  would  have  drawn  your  attention  to  him  had  you  not 
known  he  was  the  great  brute-tamer  direct  from  New  York  and  London. 
He  had  immensely  broad  shoulders,  small  hips,  and  very  straight 
legs,  small  in  proportion  to  his  "  uppers."  His  features  were  long 
and  narrow,  quite  the  American  type :  an  exceedingly  pleasing  expres- 
sion, a  frank,  good-natured  manner.  He  was  also  very  communica- 
tive. With  these  decided  advantages  he  had  one  great  draw- 
back :  he  was  afflicted  with  the  most  mysterious,  profound,  and 
unintelligible  squint  of  the  left  eye  that  ever  revolved  in  the  head  of 
a  human  being :  when  he  chose  it  was  perfectly  appalling.  By  some 
his  complete  dominion  over  his  animals  was  attributed  to  this  pecu- 
liarity of  vision ;  certainly  I  would  defy  any  one  to  be  sure  at  whom, 
or  what  at  times  he  was  glaring.  The  varieties  of  expression  in  this 
"  piercer  "  I  believe  to  have  been  put  on  as  a  part  of  the  by-play  or 
business  of  his  acting ;  be  that  as  it  may,  I  am  sure  it  had  no  effect 
whatever  upon  the  animus  of  the  beasts. 

He  was  received  by  the  Parisians  with  that  enthusiasm  and  furore 
which  they  usually  display  towards  exhibitions  where  are  to  be  enjoyed 
the  charms  of  novelty,  accompanied  by  apparently  imminent  danger. 
The  latter  quality  has  for  them  peculiar  attractions;  indeed,  I  verily 
believe  that  some  portion  of  the  audience  would  have  been  more  than 
pleased  at  witnessing  his  death  by  lions  in  the  middle  of  the  arena. 
It  is  quite  certain  that  Van  Amburgh  was  for  a  length  of  time  followed 
in  all  his  performances  by  a  gentleman  who  had  wagered  that  he 
would  be  torn  in  pieces,  and  that  he  would  be  there  to  see  it.  This 
man  of  sanguinary  expectations,  whoever  he  was — a  fact  never  ascer- 
tained— always  sat  in  a  front  seat  or  private  box,  and  peering  through 
an  opera  glass,  never  withdrew  it  for  a  moment  from  the  cage  during 
the  "  King's "  presence  in  it.  He  had  followed  him  to  Paris  and 
resumed  his  usual  nightly  prominent  position.  As  we  all  know,  he 
was,  fortunately  for  poor  Van,  doomed  to  be  disappointed  in  his 
heartless  pursuit  of  him ;  still  it  annoyed  his  Leonic  Majesty.  The 
engagement  proceeded  for  some  nights  with  the  greatest  success  and 
satisfaction  to  all  parties  :  the  management  chuckled  over  their 
profits,  the  audience  applauded  to  the  skies — and  Van  Amburgh  and 
Titus  shook  hands,  and  "calculated  they  had  whipped  creation.* 
So  far  so  good ;  everything  went  smoothly ;  but  accidents  will  happen 

T  2 

256  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

which  "we  reckon  no  one  can  calculate  on."  Not  being  a  witness  of 
the  contretemps  myself,  I  will  give  it  in  the  words  of  the  "  King." 
"They  (the  animals)  were  in  first-rate  hitch — more  so  on  that  night  than 
I'd  known  them  since  making  tracks  for  Paris.  They'd  behaved  un- 
common righteous.  Prince  (the  lion)  and  Beauty  (the  Bengal  tiger)  had 
done  their  bit,  I  guess,  up  to  Webster,  and  so  had  Vic  (the  lioness),  and 
had  all  gone  up  den  to  wait  orders.  I  was  about  striden  backards 
to  send  the  leopards  to  the  front,  when,  not  noticing  that  Vic's  tail 
lay  out,  straight  as  a  bowsprit,  I  trod  mighty  hard  across  it  with  a  sort 
of  rolling  squeeze,  which  was  near  carting  me.  In  one  instant,  quick 
as  a  squirrel,  she  had  me  through  the  calf  and  held  on  firm,  dead 
lock.  I  said  nothing,  I  knew  that  would  only  flurry  her — and  per- 
haps the  others  too — and  she  might  then  have  rolled  me ;  so  collect- 
ing my  almighty  power,  with  good  aim,  I  let  her  have  it  just  above 
the  nose.  She  dropped  hugging  like  wind,  and  made  off  Indian 
fashion,  on  her  belly,  to  old  Prince.  It  certainly  was  weighty,  that 
blow.  I  never  hit  an  animal  so  hard  before — but  my  fixings  just 
then  weren't  pleasant,  I  calculate — so  I  gave  her  all  I  could.  After 
she'd  skedaddled,  I  backed  out  quiet,  bleeding  like  Niagara."  The 
curtain  fell  at  the  excitement  of  the  scene — the  blood  was  instantly 
mopped  out  of  the  cage,  for  fear  the  other  animals  should  taste  or 
smell  it,  and  then  Van  Amburgh  made  all  haste  home  to  the  hotel, 
where  it  happened  that  I  was  ready  to  receive  and  console  him. 

He  was  in  the  most  exquisite  pain,  but  bore  it  manfully,  and 
smoked  his  cigar  with  the  utmost  coolness,  save  occasionally  giving 
utterance  to  those  peculiar  Yankee  oaths  which  characterise  the 
nation.  So  large  and  deep,  however,  were  the  indentions  made 
by  the  lioness's  fangs,  that  upon  examination  I  found  I  could  easily 
pass  my  two  fingers,  one  on  each  side,  into  the  holes,  and  make  them 
meet  In  a  few  days  the  leg  swelled,  inflammation  set  in,  and  Mr. 
Gunning  and  Sir  William  Chermside  pronounced  it  a  very  threaten- 
ing, dangerous  case  :  and  in  that  state,  under  the  most  anxious  and 
careful  treatment,  it  continued,  the  bad  symptoms  obstinately  and 
gradually  increasing. 

At  this  time  I  had  taken  advantage  of  being  in  Paris  to  join  the 
class  of  that  famous  and  justly  celebrated  historical  painter  Paul 
Delaroche,  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts,  for  the  purpose  of  studying 
the  human  figure.  I  had  previously  been  a  pupil  in  London  ot 
Mr.  Charles  Hancock,  whose  talent  as  an  animal  painter  was  highly 
appreciated,  and  whose  near  approach  to  Landseer  was  frequently 
made  the  subject  of  warm  contention.  I  had  often  shown  my 
studies  of  animals,  consisting  principally  of  dogs,  deer,  cats,  and 

Three  Months  with  a  Lion  King.  257 

horses,  to  the  suffering  Van  Amburgh,  whom  it  was  now  a  mercy  to 
amuse,  and  he  expressed  great  interest  in  and  admiration  of  the  art, 
more  especially  as  the  subjects  were  so  thoroughly  after  his  own 
taste.  His  cage  of  animals  had  been  removed  to  a  stable  yard  in 
the  Champs  Elyse'es — of  which  he  had  the  key — and  his  engagement 
at  the  Porte  St.  Martin  was  broken.  His  leg  still  continued  in- 
creasing in  size,  not  yielding  in  the  slightest  degree  to  any  kind  of 
treatment ;  in  short,  the  unlucky  Van's  "  fixings,"  as  he  called  them, 
were  as  "  still  as  a  storm." 

Nevertheless,  I  said  to  myself,  here  is  a  glorious  opportunity  for 
minutely  and  quietly  studying  the  beauties  and  terrors,  the  drawing 
and  grandeur  of  expression  of  the  heads  of  the  feline  family.  Con- 
sequently I  asked  him  if  he  would  give  me  permission  to  make 
sketches  of  his  superb  beasts.  "  I  should  think  I  guess  I  would, 
friend,"  he  good  naturedly  replied — "You  know  where  to  find  them ; 
poor  dears,  dying  for  their  Boss  !  Dan  the  keeper  stops  with  'em  all 
day  long,  so  you'll  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  knock  at  the  gate 
and  say  who  you  are,  and  then  do  as  you  like  with  'em.  I  shall  see 
Dan  before  you,  and  let  him  know  about  your  coming." 

The  next  morning  early  I  packed  up  my  painting  traps,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  the  scene  of  action.  I  found  the  animals  in  a  most  com- 
modious, airy  stable-yard,  under  a  sort  of  carriage-drive,  well  protected 
from  the  weather,  and  in  a  capital  light  for  my  purpose.  The  perform- 
ing cage  had  been  taken  to  pieces,  and  the  beasts  had  been  removed 
into  their  travelling-dens.  The  lion  and  lioness  were  together;  the 
enormous  Bengal  tiger,  that  measured  twenty-two  feet  from  the  tip  of  his 
nose  to  the  end  of  his  tail,  was  alone;  while  the  leopards,  of  which  there 
were  seven,  occupied  the  third  van.  I  was  more  struck  than  ever 
by  their  extreme  beauty,  their  sleekness  of  coat,  and  their  perfection 
of  condition.  But  I  soon  discovered  that  these  attractions  were  ob- 
tained only  by  the  greatest  attention  to  their  health  and  welfare.  For 
instance,  my  assiduous  Daniel,  shortly  after  my  introduction,  entered 
the  lion's  den,  and,  brush  in  hand,  commenced  grooming  him,  an 
operation  which  he  seemed  to  enjoy,  and  submitted  to  with  the 
greatest  patience  and  good-humour.  He  next  performed  the  same 
kind  office  for  the  disgraced  Vic,  who  also  appeared  equally  grateful 
and  equally  as  docile  as  her  lord  and  master.  Their  thanks  were 
expressed  by  a  series  of  joyous  boundings  up  and  down,  and  against 
the  boarded  sides  of  the  den,  but  with  such  ponderous  grace  and 
roaring  that  I  really « trembled  for  the  fate  of  Daniel,  who,  not 
attempting  to  interfere  with  them,  stood  perfectly  mute  and  indif- 
ferent, his  brush  in  one  hand,  his  broom  in  the  other.     With  the 

258  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

latter,  as  soon  as  quiet  was  restored,  he  swept  out  the  den. 
This  service  was  continued  to  each  cage  of  animals,  and  with  the 
like  results. 

I  soon  set  to  work  and  completed  a  study  of  the  lion  and  lioness's 
heads,  which,  to  the  intense  delight  of  Van  Amburgh,  I  presented  to 
him.  Unfortunately  his  leg  persistently  got  worse,  and  with  it  his 
health  was  fast  failing.  Alarming  debility,  fainting  fits,  and  profuse 
perspirations  were  the  coming  evils.  For  my  part,  I  began  to  dread 
the  worst ;  and  as  for  Titus,  he  was  past  all  hope  or  consolation, 
and  spent  his  time  in  brandy  and  tears.  At  length  came  the  crisis. 
Amputation  was  proposed.  Van  would  not  listen  to  any  limb- 
lopping  ;  he  preferred  death  a  thousand  times  over.  A  consultation 
with  the  best  French  surgeons  was  next  held.  Baron  Larry,  as  a 
dernier  ressort,  requested  permission  to  open  the  leg,  which  had  now 
swollen  to  an  enormous  size ;  by  keeping  it  in  a  continual  hot  batii 
he  hoped  to  bring  on  suppuration.  To  this  Van  Amburgh  consented  ; 
and  never  shall  I  forget  the  scene  of  confusion  and  uproar  he  caused 
at  the  operation.  This  courageous,  dauntless  gladiator,  who  daily 
and  nightly  risked  his  life ;  who  boasted  that  he  would  face  the  most 
savage  wild  beast,  and  indeed  on  several  occasions  had  done  so ; 
whose  coolness  and  presence  of  mind  were  beyond  a  doubt ;  and 
whose  American  philosophy  of  death  would  have  led  you  to  believe 
that  he  had  already  suffered  that  last  convulsion  at  least  ten  times — 
the  instant  that  all  was  in  readiness  (he  had  been  removed  for  con- 
venience from  the  bed  into  an  arm-chair)  and  he  caught  sight 
of  the  knife,  he  howled  and  yelled  worse  than  any  hyena. 
He  cried  for  mercy,  begged,  prayed,  and  implored  like  a  child 
that  they  would  not  hurt  him,  and,  in  fine,  that  they  would 
desist :  he  could  never  stand  it;  it  would  kill  him  at  once;  he  should 
die  under  the  operation.  However,  all  his  beseechings  were  now  too 
late,  and  in  vain  ;  he  was  in  the  hands  of  men  who,  accustomed  to 
scenes  of  this  description,  were  as  deaf  and  unmoved  as  posts.  With 
the  assistance  of  two  men,  besides  Titus  and  myself,  the  cursing, 
swearing,  and  violent  patient — for  that  was  the  turn  his  mind  and 
temper  had  taken  ere  he  resigned  himself  to  the  knife — was  held 
down  by  main  force  after  severe  struggling.  I  may  truly  say  it  was 
a  fight  for  life.  What  a  blessing  is  chloroform  !  Baron  Larry  at 
length  passed  the  scalpel  in  at  the  back  of  the  leg,  a  little  above  the 
calf,  and  below  the  knee,  and  drew  it  out  about  an  inch  above  the 
ankle.  The  wound  was  fully  eight  inches  long,  and  as  deep  as 
he  could  make  it.  During  its  progress  the  yelling,  cursing,  and 
fighting  was  inconceivably  disgusting  and  ridiculous.    Nevertheless, 

Thru  Months  with  a  Lion  King.  259 

the  "King"  was  fairly  beaten,  and  when  all  was  over,  and  the 
limb  comfortably  placed  in  a  hot  bath,  his  gratitude  was  boundless, 
and  his  thanks  unceasing  and  sincere.  He  wept  like  the  veriest 

A  few  days  sufficed  to  show  that  the  operation  had  been  at- 
tended with  signal  success.  From  day  to  day  there  was  manifest 
improvement  in  both  the  poisoned  leg  and  his  shaken  health,  and 
thus  in  time  was  the  mighty  tamer  of  the  denizens  of  the  forests  and 
deserts  restored  from  the' brink  of  the  grave  to  his  normal  condition 
of  gigantic  strength  and  health. 

During  his  progress  to  convalescence  I  daily  availed  myself  of  the 
opportunity  of  sketching  and  studying  the  beautiful  beasts  in  the 
Champs  Elyse'es.  I  was  left  much  alone  with  them,  and  became 
quite  familiar  and  good  friends  with  all  of  them. 

I  come  now  to  the  secret — the  very  soul,  as  it  were,  of  the  tamer's 
existence  and  professional  success,  which  I  discovered  under  the 
following  strange  circumstances.  On  arriving  at  the  extremities  of 
the  tiger,  anxious  to  express  the  peculiar  action  of  clawing  natural  to 
all  the  feline  tribe,  I  essayed  to  irritate  him  with  the  handle  of  a  hoe 
used  for  scraping  out  the  dens,  trusting  that  he  would  strike  at  it  with 
his  paw.  It  was  all  in  vain,  I  could  not  procure  the  demonstration  of 
talons  necessary  for  my  purpose,  although  I  over  and  over  again  tried  to 
bring  him  to  the  scratch.  In  despair  I  gave  it  up  and  sat  down  and 
smoked,  considering  what  next  to  do,  when  I  presently  observed  that 
my  striped  model  beauty  had  prepared  himself  for  a  siesta,  and  in 
his  abandon  had  thrust  out  his  huge  foot  beneath  the  bottom  bar,  so 
that  it  hung  listlessly  on  the  outside,  in  a  sort  of  drooping  position. 
Softly,  almost  imperceptibly,  smoothing  it  down  with  one  hand — a 
sensation  that  evidently  gave  him  pleasure  and  confidence — I  with  the 
other  tenderly  drew  open  his  toes,  still  continuing  the  mesmeric 
movement.  He  at  first  half  opened  his  terror-striking  eyes,  and  gazed 
dozingly  but  inquiringly  at  me,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  What  are  you 
going  to  do  ?"  I  did  not,  however,  desist,  but  cautiously  continued 
my  examination ;  nor  was  I  to  be  satisfied  until  I  had  thoroughly 
ascertained  the  truth  of  my  suspicions — he  had  no  claws.  They  had 
been  extracted  as  you  would  extract  the  finger  nail  of  a  human  being, 
and  the  toes  afterwards  cauterised.  Upon  carefully  scrutinising  the 
feet  of  the  other  animals  I  soon  made  assurance  doubly  sure,  and 
incontrovertibly  convinced  myself  that  they  had  been  all  served  alike; 
from  the  lion  to  the  leopards  they  were  c/aw/ess. 

The  conclusions  I  immediately  came  to  within  myself  at  this 
astounding  mutilation  were  these : — Here  is  beyond  comparison  the 

260  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

very  handsomest  and  noblest  collection  of  wild  beasts  ever  seen 
together,  tame,  submissive,  and  tractable  as  domestic-bred  animals,  in 
most  superb  coat,  fat  as  moles,  and  apparently  as  affectionate  and 
grateful  for  kindness  as  would  be  the  most  intelligent  and  faithful 
of  man's  companions ;  the  one  great  and  accountable  reason  for  this 
is  that  in  themselves — their  courage,  their  ferocity,  and  their  savage 
natures — they  are  vanquished,  annihilated,  utterly  undone  and 
demoralised.  Plundered  of  their  weapons,  offensive  and  defensive, 
their  very  heartstrings  torn  asunder,  their  quick,  sensitive  natures 
crushed  out — cast  off  the  rack,  cowed,  bleeding,  benumbed  and  in- 
capable, to  obey  the  will  of  their  torturer.  "  Ah,"  I  exclaimed,  "  poor 
beautiful  and  pampered  creatures,  you  are  not  what  you  seem ;  you 
are  no  longer  lions  and  tigers,  rulers  of  deserts  and  jungles;  un- 
happy, miserable  brutes,  I  pity  you  from  my  heart ;  nevertheless,  in 
your  low  estate  you  are  yet  more  admirable  than  man  !" 

On  returning  to  the  hotel,  when  alone  with  Van  Amburgh  I  made 
a  point  of  reciting  to  him  my  accidental  discovery  of  his  secret  "ways 
and  means "  of  obtaining  his  surprising  supremacy.  His  embarrass- 
ment and  confusion  were  at  first  profound  and  helpless,  but  to  me,  in 
my  disgust,  really  enjoyable.     Recovering  himself,  however,  quickly, 

he  rather  violently  exclaimed,  "May  I  be !"  (a national  oath) 

"  if  you  were  to  tell  other  folks  of  this,  youngster,  you  would  just  ruin 
the  consarn.  You  artists  are  too  inquisitive.  I  wonder  natur*  stands 
to  it,  always  prying  into  her  bosom  secrets.  She'll  revolutionise  some 
day,  I  guess,  and  throw  you.  What  could  you  want  with  their  claws  ? 
Why,  a  tom-cat's  would  have  done  you  quite  as  well,  I  calculate,  as 
my  innocents'. "  A  volley  of  slang  followed  this  repentance  of  his. 
liberal  free  admission  to*  his  magnificent  menagerie.  When  cooled 
down,  he  extracted  from  me  a  promise,  as  "  a  gentleman  and  man  of 
honour,"  that  I  would  never  repeat  what  I  had  seen  to  any  one,  so- 
long  as  he  was  performing.  I  have  kept  my  word.  This  is  the  first 
time  I  have  ever  disclosed  the  excruciating  process,  the  refined  agony, 
and  despicable  cowardice  by  which  Van  Amburgh  made  himself  a 
" Lion  King!" 

The  first  meeting  between  Van  and  his  animals  after  so  long  an 
absence  as  nearly  three  months  was  one  of  the  most  touching  ebul- 
litions of  attachment  ever  witnessed  or  possible  to  imagine.  The 
party  consisted  of  Titus;  the  great  performer  himself,  on  crutches;  a 
Colonel  Perrignez,  of  the  Algerian  Army ;  and  myself.  Van  carried 
with  him  a  large  bag  of  sweet  biscuits  and  lumps  of  sugar — for  I 
must  here  mention  that  he  had  taught  them  to  eat  all  sorts  of  nic- 
nacs,  and  they  had  become  extremely  fond  of  them,  and  looked  for  them 

Three  Months  with  a  Lion  King.  261 

from  his  hand  with  greedy  anxiety.  They  were  always  fed  upon 
cooked  meat,  and  never  on  any  account  permitted  to  taste  or  smell 
blood.  On  entering  the  stable  yard,  immediately  catching  sight  of  their 
master,  the  whole  place  was  in  an  uproar;  the  animals  sprang  against 
the  bars,  rose  up  on  them,  rubbed  themselves  violently  against  them, 
purring  and  roaring  sotto  voce,  and  exhibiting  every  conceivable 
demonstration  of  affection  and  delight  at  his  return  that  their  natures 
dictated  and  were  capable  of.  Nothing  but  Van's  caresses  would 
pacify  or  calm  them.  "  Pretty  dears,  I  would  go  in  to  them,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  fear  they  would  rough  me,  and  I  am  yet  too  weak."  However, 
perceiving  a  chair  handy,  he  exclaimed,  "  My  pets,  be  patient  and  I'll 
come  and  talk  to  you."  Taking  the  chair  with  one  hand,  he  opened  the 
lion's  den  with  the  other,  and  hobbled  as  well  as  he  could  up  the  little 
steps  which  led  to  the  doorway;  but  so  eager  were  they  to  get  at  him, 
that  had  it  not  been  for  the  assistance  of  Dan,  they  most  assuredly 
would  have  jumped  out  and  got  at  large.  Once  inside,  Van  seated  him- 
self most  majestically  in  the  middle,  crutch  in  hand;  then,  calling  the 
lioness  to  him,  he  read  her  a  lecture  on  her  misbehaviour  and  the  impro- 
priety of  biting  him .  Prince,  in  the  meantime,  sat  by  his  side,  with 
his  magnificent  head  resting  on  his  knees,  apparently  listening  to  and 
inwardly  digesting  the  advice  given  to  his  less  reflective  spouse.  Van 
then  patted  and  played  with  them,  and  finally  put  each  through  a 
short  rehearsal  of  some  of  their  well  known  tricks  and  attitudes, 
simply  keeping  them  off  him  by  the  authority  of  his  crutch,  finishing 
his  visit  by  a  distribution  of  cakes  and  sugar,  and  a  renewal  of  fond 
and  endearing  expressions  of  his  regard  for  them.  The  whole  scene 
was  of  the  most  interesting  and  absorbing  description,  far  surpassing 
any  exhibition  that  I  had  ever  before  either  read  of  or  could  have 
supposed  such  ferocious  natures  admitted  of  displaying.  The 
same  ceremony  was  gone  through  with  each  set  of  animals,  the 
leopards  literally  mobbing  and  hustling  him,  almost  beyond  his 
control;  he  had,  indeed,  considerable  difficulty  in  keeping  them  at 
all  within  bounds. 

Van  Amburgh  is  now  no  more,  but  he  died  a  natural  death — not 
torn  to  pieces  in  revenge  for  unjustifiable  brutality  and  vulgar  daring. 
He  was  par  excellence  at  the  head  of  his  then  novel  and  hazardous 
calling — a  "  Lion  King." 

The  Tichborne  Dole. 

HAT  time  Plantagenet  the  king 

Was  wading  through  his  troubled  reign ; 
And  Strongbow  drew  the  sword,  to  bring 
The  exiled  Dermot  back  again ; 
At  Tichborne  Manor,  day  by  day, 
The  Lady  Mabel  Tichborne  lay. 

So  long  her  bed  had  been  her  lot, 
And  four  white  walls  her  only  scene, 

It  may  be  she  remembered  not 

That  skies  were  blue  and  meadows  green ; 

But  visions  of  a  world  more  fair 

Had  often  cheered  her  spirit  there. 

And  she  had  learned  that  rank  and  gain 

Are'nothing  but  a  broken  reed ; 
And  she  had  learned,  by  schooling  pain, 

To  pity  all  who  pity  need ; 
The  naked,  hungry,  sick,  and  blind  • 

Were  never  absent  from  her  mind. 

Her  husband,  Roger  Tichborne,  Knight, 
Stood,  one  March  morning,  at  her  side, 

Prepared  to  see  her  make  the  flight 
Across  Death's  darkly-rolling  tide ; 

"  O,  art  thou  here,  my  lord  ?  "  said  she — 

"  I  have  one  boon  to  ask  of  thee." 

"  What  wouldst  tfcou,  wife  ?  "  Sir  Roger  said. 

"  I  crave,  my  lord,  a  piece  of  ground, 
To  furnish  forth  a  dole  of  bread, 

As  often  as  this  day  comes  round ; 
It  is  our  Lady's  Day,  you  know, 
Now  grant  my  boon,  and  let  me  go." 

The  Tichbome  Dole.  263 

'Twas  long  ere  Roger  Tichborne  spoke, 

Then  seized  he  up  a  smoking  brand, 
And,  half  in  earnest,  half  in  joke, 

Said,  "  I  will  give  thee  so  much  land 
As  thou  canst  walk  around  to-day, 
While  this  pine  candle  burns  away." 

"  Done  with  thee,"  said  the  noble  dame ; 

"  Put  by  thy  brand  till  noontide  hour ; 
And  though  I£am  but  weak  and  lame, 

It  may  be  God  will  give  me  power 
To  feed  the  poor  this  day  with  bread, 
For  ages  after  I  am  dead." 

From  hall  and  cot  the  neighbours  went 

To  see  their  lady  do  her  part ; 
She  stood  before  them  old  and  bent, 

But  youthful  fire  was  in  her  heart ; 
Said  all,  "  The  Lord  direct  her  feet ! 
Was  ever  one  so  brave  and  sweet  ?  " 

A  minute's  pause  to  think  and  pray, 

And  raise  on  high  her  thankful  song ; 
And  now  the  saint  is  on  her  way, 

From  utter  weakness  made  so  strong, 
That  she,  who  scarce  could  move  a  hand, 
Goes  round  a  goodly  piece  of  land. 

And  one  may  yet,  without  the  walls 
Of  Tichborne  Park,  behold  the  place — 

A  field,  wide-acred,  named  "  The  Crawls," 
Where  Lady  Mabel,  in  her  grace, 

Left  for  awhile  her  dying  bed, 

To  earn  the  poor  a  piece  of  bread. 

Sir  Roger  Tichborne  lifts  his  eyes, 

So  much  amazed,  he  cannot  speak ; 
The  half-burnt  brand  before  him  lies, 

The  colour  mantles  in  his  cheeks ; 
While  mutters  he,  "  By'r  Lady's  name, 
Had  ever  king  a  grander  dame  ?" 

264  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

When  on  her  bed  again  she  lay, 
The  house  was  gathered  at  her  call ; 

"  Now,  listen  to  the  words  I  say, 
Bear  witness  to  them,  one  and  all, 

While  those  broad  acres  feed  the  poor, 

The  Tichbome  glory  shall  endure. 

"  But  should  a  Tichborne  ever  dare, 
(As  men  will  do,  for  sake  of  greed),  , 

To  meddle  with  the  poor  man's  share 
Of  Tichborne  land ;  in  very  deed 

The  shadow  of  my  curse  shall  veil 

The  Tichborne  name,  and  heirs  will  fail." 

Well  nigh  six  hundred  years  had  fled, 
Since  Lady  Mabel  passed  away ; 

And  men  had  tasted  of  her  bread, 
And  called  her  blest  each  Lady  Day  ; 

Until  to  Tichborne  Hall  one  year 

A  lawless  multitude  drew  near. 

There  every  thief,  and  every  knave, 
And  every  wild  and  wanton  soul, 

For  miles  around  Dame  Mabel's  grave, 
With  riot  clamoured  for  the  dole ; 

Thenceforward,  for  the  sake  of  peace, 

The  gift,  alas  !  was  made  to  cease. 

And  from  that  hour,  the  Tichbornes  lost 
The  kindly  light  of  Fortune's  smile, 

The  good  old  name,  so  widely  tost 

Through  court  and  camp,  was  hid  awhile  ; 

'Twas  ever  so — "  No  poor  man  wrong, 

If  thou  wouldst  have  thy  castle  strong  !" 

The  Dead  Stranger. 

BY  THE  REV,  B.  W.  SAVILE,  M.A. 


FRIEND  of  mine — he  was  called  Waldrich — had  scarcely 
left  the  University  two  years,  and  had  been  employing 
himself  as  supernumerary  and  unsalaried  junior  barrister 
in  a  provincial  capital,  when  the  Holy  War  agitated  all 
Germany.  The  object  was  the  emancipation  of  the  country  from 
the  yoke  of  the  French  conqueror,  and  a  pious  zeal,  as  every  one 
knows,  took  possession  of  the  whole  nation.  "  Freedom  and  Father- 
land "  was  the  war  cry  in  every  town  and  village.  Thousands  of 
young  men  joyfully  flew  to  the  standards.  It  was  a  quesjtion  of  the 
honour  of  Germany  and  of  the  hope  that  the  Land  of  Hermann 
would  perhaps  awake  to  a  nobler  existence,  under  a  lawfully  consti- 
tuted state  of  things,  more  worthy  of  this  civilised  age.  My  friend 
Waldrich  partook  warmly  of  this  holy  zeal  and  noble  hope.  To  be 
brief,  he  took  a  polite  leave  of  the  President  of  the  Courts,  and 
chose  the  sword  instead  of  the  pen. 

As  he  had  not  yet  fully  attained  his  majority,  and  having  no  father 
or  mother  living,  and  money  being  in  every  case  essential  to  travel- 
ling, he  wrote  to  his  guardian  for  permission  to  join  the  campaign 
for  his  country,  and  solicited  a  hundred  dollars  for  his  travelling 

His  guardian,  Herr  Bantes,  was  a  rich  manufacturer  in  the  small 
town  of  Herbesheim,  on  the  Aa,  who  had,  it  might  be  said,  brought 
him  up,  although  Waldrich  had  only  lived  in  his  house  as  a  boy 
before  he  went  to  the  University. 

Herr  Bantes  was  a  queer,  whimsical  old  gentleman.  He  sent  him 
in  reply  a  letter  with  fifteen  louis  d'or  in  gold,  the  contents  of  which 
were  as  follows : — "  My  friend,  when  you  are  one  year  older  you 
may  dispose  of  yourself  and  the  small  residue  of  your  property 
according  to  your  own  pleasure.  Till  that  time  I  beg  you  to  put  off 
your  campaign  for  the  Fatherland,  and  to  apply  yourself  to  business, 
that  you  may  one  day  get  some  situation  whereby  you  may  earn  your 
bread,  which  will  be  very  needful  for  you.    I  know  my  duty  to  my 

266  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

departed  friend,  your  late  father.     Have  done  with  all  your  enthu- 
siastic fancies,  and  become  steady.     I  will  therefore  not  Send  you  a, 
single  kreutzer,  and  remain,  &c." 

The  fifteen  louis  d'or  wrapped  in  paper  contrasted  strangely, 
but  not  by  any  means  disagreeably,  with  this  letter.  Waldrich  would 
have  been  long  in  explaining  the  difficulty,  and  would  perhaps  never 
have  done  so,  had  not  his  eye  glanced  upon  the  bit  of  paper  in  which 
the  money  had  been  enclosed,  and  which  had  fallen  on  the  floor. 
He  took  it  up,  and  read  : — 

"  Do  not  be  discouraged.  Embrace  the  holy  cause  of  suffering 
Germany.     God  protect  you  !  is  the  prayer  of 

"  Your  former  playfellow, 


This  said  playfellow  Frederica  was  none  other  than  Herr  Bantes's 
young  daughter.  Heaven  knows  how  she  managed  with  the  sealing 
up  of  her  father's  letter.  Waldrich  stood  enraptured,  more  delighted 
with  the  heroic  heart  of  the  young  German  girl  than  with  the  gold 
which  Frederica  had  enclosed,  probably  out  of  her  own  savings.  He 
wrote  immediately  to  a  friend  in  Herbesheim,  enclosed  a  few  grate- 
ful lines  for  the  little  girl  (forgetting  that  the  little  girl  in  four  years* 
time  might  be  somewhat  grown),  called  her  even  his  German 
Thusnelda,  and  betook  himself  proudly,  like  a  second  Hermann,  to 
the  Army  of  the  Rhine. 

I  have  no  intention  of  circumstantially  detailing  Waldrich's  Her- 
mann-like deeds.  It  is  enough  that  he  was  in  his  place  when  wanted. 
Napoleon  was  happily  dethroned,  and  sent  off  to  Elba.  Waldrich 
did  not  return  home  like  the  other  volunteers,  but  consented  to 
enter  as  lieutenant  in  a  regiment  of  the  line.  Life  in  campaign 
pleased  him  better  than  behind  the  piles  of  deeds  and  papers  in  a 
dusty  office.  His  regiment  took  part  in  the  second  campaign 
against  France,  and  at  length  at  the  final  close  returned  home,  with 
drums  beating  and  songs  of  triumph. 

Waldrich,  who  had  fought  in  two  great  battles  and  several  skir- 
mishes, had  been  fortunate  enough  to  escape  without  a  single  wound. 
He  flattered  himself  he  should,  as  a  defender  of  his  country,  receive 
in  preference  to  others  some  civil  office  as  a  reward.  He  was  much 
esteemed  in  his  regiment  for  his  amiable  qualities  and  many  acquire- 
ments ;  but  as  regards  the  situation,  it  was  not  to  be  had  as  soon  as 
he  hoped.  There  were  too  many  sons  and  cousins  of  privy  coun- 
cillors and  presidents,  &c,  to  be  provided  for,  who  had  been  prudent 
enough  to  allow  others  to  fight  the  holy  war  of  freedom,  and  remain 

Tfie  Dead  Stranger.  267 

themselves  safe  at  homeland  who  possessed,  moreover,  the  advantages 
of  birth  ;  whereas  Waldrich's  parents  ranked  only  among  the  middle 

There  was  no  helping  this.  He  continued  lieutenant,  and  the 
more  willingly  as  Herr  Bantes,  his  former  guardian,  had  long  since 
delivered  over  to  him  the  very  small  residue  of  his  paternal  property, 
which  had  also  long  since  been  scattered  to  the  winds.  He  remained, 
therefore,  in  the  garrison,  wrote  poetry  when  on  guard,  and  made 
philosophical  observations  on  parade.  This  was  woefully  wearisome 
to  him,  till  the  troops  changed  quarters,  when  it  most  unexpectedly 
happened  that  his  company  was  ordered  off  to  the  small  town  of 
Herbesheim.  At  the  head  of  his  company  (for  the  captain,  a  rich 
baron,  was  absent  on  leave)  he  entered  his  native  town  as  comman- 
dant Oh  !  what  were  his  sensations  at  sight  of  the  two  black,  high- 
pointed  church  towers  !  The  drum  ceased  before  the  Guildhall. 
Two  of  the  Town  Council  brought  the  billets.  The  commandant, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  was  quartered  in  the  best,  viz.,  the  handsomest 
house  in  the  town — that  is  to  say,  with  Herr  Bantes.  The  worthy 
members  of  the  Town  Council  could  not  have  bestowed  on  him  a 
greater  favour. 

The  company  separated  very  well  pleased,  for  it  was  just  then  the 
very  agreeable  hour  of  dinner,  and  the  respectable  inhabitants, 
informed  betimes  of  the  expected  quartering,  were  fully  prepared  to 
receive  their  new  guests.  Waldrich,  who  had  known  the  two  town 
magistrates  from  his  boyish  days,  remarked  that  he  himself  could  not 
have  been  recognised,  for  they  treated  him  with  respect  and  as  an 
entire  stranger,  and  escorted  him  themselves,  although  he  declined 
the  honour,  to  the  manufacturer's  house.  Here  Herr  Bantes  received 
him  with  equal  formality,  and  led  him  with  much  politeness  into  a 
very  nice,  well-furnished  room. 

"  Captain,"  said  Herr  Bantes,  "  this  and  the  adjoining  rooms  were 
occupied  by  your  predecessor ;  accept  what  we  have  to  offer,  pray 
make  yourself  comfortable,  and  we  hope  to  see  you  at  dinner,  and 
such  like.     I  hope  you  will  make  yourself  quite  at  home." 

Our  Waldrich  was  exceedingly  amused  at  his  unexpected  incognito. 
His  plan  was  to  discover  himself  on  some  fitting  occasion,  that  the 
surprise  might  be  the  greater.  He  had  no  sooner  changed  his  dress 
than  he  was  called  to  dinner.  There  he  found,  besides  Herr  Bantes 
and  his  lady,  and  some  old  clerks  and  overseers  of  the  manufactory, 
with  all  of  whom  he  was  well  acquainted,  a  young  girl,  whom  he  did 
not  know.  The  party  seated  themselves.  The  conversation  turned 
upon  the  weather,  on  the  company's  march  that  day,  on  the  regret 

a68  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

of  the  whole  town  that  the  former  regiment,  which  had  been  especially 
liked,  should  be  removed  into  another  town. 

"  Meanwhile,  I  hope,"  said  Waldrich,  "  that  you  will  not  be  dis- 
satisfied with  me  and  my  men.  Let  us  only  become  domesticated 
with  you." 

Now,  in  order  to  become  domesticated,  it  was  natural  that  the 
commandant,  who  had  already  been  wondering  that  the  friend  of 
his  youth,  Frederica,  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  his  fifteen  louis 
d'or,  was  not  to  be  seen — that  he,  I  say,  should  ask  his  hostess 
whether  she  had  any  children.  "  One  daughter,"  replied  Madame 
Bantes,  and  pointed  to  the  young  lady,  who  modestly  cast  her  eyes 
down  on  her  plate. 

Waldrich's  admiring  eyes,  however,  wandered  across  more  than 
the  occasion  warranted.  Merciful  heaven  !  what  a  noble  creature  is 
the  little  Rietchen  become.  Waldrich  did  not  say  that  aloud,  but 
he  thought  it  to  himself  as  he  looked  more  attentively  at  the  modest 
girl.  He  made  some  polite  observation  to  the  parents,  as  well  as 
his  first  amazement  would  let  him,  and  was  heartily  glad  when  the 
old  papa  exclaimed : — "  A  spoonful  more  gravy,  and  such  like, 
with  your  dry  bit  of  roast  meat  there,  commandant" 

Madame  Bantes  spoke  of  a  son  who  had  died  in  early  childhood, 
and  she  still  spoke  of  him  with  the  sorrowing  affection  of  a  mother. 

"Have  done  with  that  topic,  mamma,"  cried  thejjapa;  "who  knows  ? 
perhaps  in  the  end  he  might  have  become  a  mere  spendthrift  and 
such  like,  as  that  George  has." 

It  was  now  Waldrich's  turn  to  cast  down  his  eyes  modestly  on  his 
plate,  for  by  the  "  spendthrift  George  "  was  meant  none  other  than 
his  own  insignificant  self. 

"But  do  you  really  know,  papa,  whether  George  has  actually 
become  such  a  spendthrift  as  you  represent  him?"  said  Frederica. 

The  question  imparted  to  the  commandant  a  warmer  glow  than 
the  glass  of  old  burgundy,  which  he  had  just  put  to  his  lips  in  order 
to  conceal  his  confusion.  Traces  of  former  and  yet  unforgotten 
youthful  friendship  were  to  be  discerned  in  the  inquiry,  and  a  ques- 
tion so  interesting,  proceeding  from  lips  so  fair,  and  asked  with  a  voice 
so  soft  and  so  moving,  might  reasonably  be  looked  upon  as  honey, 
sweetening  the  bitter  pill  for  poor  Waldrich  which  Herr  Bantes  so 
bountifully  administered.  For,  in  justification  of  his  sentence,  the 
latter  proceeded  to  relate  to  his  guest,  as  though  he  himself  should  be 
umpire,  the  history  of  his  own  life  from  the  cradle  up  to  the  patriotic 

"  Had  the  lad,"  thus  he  concluded  the  story,  turning  it  to  a  practical  * 

T/ie  Dead  Stranger.  269 

purpose,  "  only  learnt  anything  useful  at  the  University  he  would 
never  have  enlisted  and  such  like  ;  if  he  had  not  been  a  soldier  he 
might  now  be  holding  a  good  situation  as  lawyer  or  physician,  have 
earned  his  bread,  and  got  a  comfortable  income." 

"  I  know  not,"  replied  the  daughter,  "  whether  or  not  he  made  the 
best  of  his  time  at  the  University,  but  this  I  know,  that  he  must  have 
had  a  good  heart  to  sacrifice  himself  for  a  holy  cause." 

"  Don't  be  throwing  the  holy  cause  and  such  like  always  in  my 
face,"  cried  Herr^Bantes.  "  What  is  this  holy  thing,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?  The  French  have  been  driven  away — well  and  good ;  but  the 
holy  German  Empire  has  gone  to  the  devil.  The  old  taxes  are 
retained  provisionally,  and  new  ones  are  provisionally  added.  These 
confounded  English  with  their  wares  are  admitted  just  as  before,  and 
no  one  troubles  his  head  if  we  blessed  Germans  become  blessed 
beggars.  Everything  went  off  flatly  at  the  last  fair.  The  Ministers 
and  such  like  go  on  eating  and  drinking,  do  just  what  they  please, 
know  nothing  about  trade,  let  the  manufacturers  become  bankrupt, 
and  are  good  for  nothing  from  first  to  last.  The  world  is  just  as  in 
former  times,  and  worse  still.  If  an  honourable  man,  who  perhaps 
understands  things  better,  does  but  open  his  mouth  and  sing  a 
different  song  from  his  Excellency  with  a  cross  under  his  button-hole, 
and  indifference  under  the  same  button-hole — haven't  you  seen  it  your- 
self ? — it  is  quick  work — away  with  the  poor  man  to  prison  ;  he  is 
turned  out  of  employment,  stripped  of  everything,  all  his  affairs 
pryed  into,  his  character  blackened ;  he  is  a  vagabond,  demagogue, 
and  such  like.  I  tell  you, .  hold  your  tongue,  child !  You  don't 
understand  the  matter ;  you  mustn't  look  farther  than  from  the  teapot 
into  the  cup,  and  then  you'll  be  sure  not  to  spill." 

Waldrich  gathered  from  this  conversation  that  Herr  Bantes  was 
still  the  same  irritable,  excitable,  whimsical  old  man  as  ever  3  whom, 
nevertheless,  no  One  could  help  liking,  with  all  his  peculiarities.  As 
an  umpire  was  now  called  on  to  decide  in  this  dispute  between 
father  and  daughter,  the  commandant  was  prudent  and  polite  enough 
first  to  agree  entirely  with  the  father  as  regards  the  holy  cause — and 
that  was  considered  as  doing  credit  to  his  good  understanding.  But 
then,  again,  as  he  was  not  quite  disposed  altogether  to  condemn  him- 
self, he  felt  also  obliged  to  agree  with  his  fair  advocate  in  respect  of 
the  good  heart  with  which  George  had  sacrificed  himself  for  the  afore- 
said holy  cause. 

"  Only  mark,"  cried  the  old  man,  "  the  commandant  is  more  wily 
than  Jack  Paris  with  the  three  silly  Trojan'goddesses,  and  such  like. 
Accommodates  himself  to  circumstances;  cuts  the  apple  in  two, 
Vol.  X.  N.S.,  1873.  u 

270  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

gives    a    piece    to    each,    and    says,    *  Much    good    may  it  do 
you.' " 

"  Nay,  Herr  Bantes,  if  your  George  erred  he  probably  did  so  like 
thousands  of  other  Germans,  and  as  I  myself,  for  instance.  I,  too, 
served  in  the  campaign  for  the  freedom  of  Germany,  and  left  every- 
thing else  in  the  lurch.  Our  armies  were  cut  to  pieces,  as  you  know. 
The  people  were  forced  to  rise  and  defend  themselves,  because  the 
army  could  no  longer  do  so.  It  was  not  then  the  time  to  calculate 
and  ask  questions,  but  to  strike  home,  to  risk  personal  life  and 
property,  and  to  save  the  honour  of  the  nation  and  the  throne  of 
our  monarchs.  We  have  done  so,  and  must  now  hope  for  better 
times.  Our  best  intentioned  statesmen  have  no  powers  of  magic  to 
restore  lost  paradise  by  a  sleight  of  hand ;  and  I,  at  least,  do  not 
repent  of  the  step  I  have  taken." 

"  I  have  the  greatest  respect,"  said  Herr  Bantes,  with  a  low  bow, 
"  the  greatest  possible  respect,  commandant,  for  your  exception  to 
the  general  rule.  Exceptions  in  this  world  are  always  better  than  the 
rule  itself.  It  strikes  me,  nevertheless,  as  something  queer  and 
withal  serious  that  we,  citizens  and  countryfolk,  merchants  and  manu- 
facturers, must  needs  pay  our  money  for  twenty  years  together  to 
maintain  an  army  of  some  hundred  thousand  idle  protectors  in  time 
of  peace,  to  clothe  them  in  velvet,  silk,  and  gold,  and  then  in  the  one 
and  twentieth  year,  when  the  protectors  of  the  throne  are  cut  to 
pieces,  must  rise  ourselves  to  bring  the  wheel  into  the  right  track 
and  such  like." 

This  sort  of  chit-chat  enabled  them  to  get  more  intimate  with  each 
other  during  the  first  dinner.  Herr  Bantes  himself  gave  the  tone,  for 
he  was  a  man — and  he  plumed  himself  upon  it — who,  as  he  nimself 
expressed  it,  never  put  a  padlock  on  his  lips.  The  commandant  felt  his 
incognito  at  times  very  convenient,  and  yet  he  was  desirous  of  putting 
an  end  to  it  * 

And  in  truth  it  was  already  at  an  end,  ere  he  was  himself  aware 
of  it.  Madame  Bantes,  a  quiet,  closely  observing  woman,  who  said 
little  and  thought  much,  had  no  sooner  heard  Waldrich's  voice  at 
the  dinner  table  than  she  recalled  his  features  as  a  boy, 
compared  them  with  those  of  the  man  before  her,  and  recog- 
nised him  immediately.  His  manifest  confusion  when  the  con- 
versation turned  upon  the  "  spendthrift  George  "  only  confirmed  her 
suspicions ;  but  she  said  not  a  word  of  her  discovery  either  to  him- 
self or  others.  That  was  always  her  way.  Never  was  a  woman  with 
so  little  of  that  feminine  quality  of  always  having  her  thoughts  on 
her  tongue.     She  let  everybody  sit  and  talk  just  as  he  pleased;  4she 

The  Dead  Stranger.  271 

listened,  compared,  and  drew  her  own  conclusions.  For  this 
reason  she  always  knew  more  than  anybody  else  in  the  house, 
-and  guided,,  unnoticed  and  in  a  quiet  way,  all  that  took  place: 
-even  the  excitable,  fiery  old  man,  her  husband,  who  least  of  all  liked 
to  be  in  thraldom  to  her,  was  so  really  more  than  any  one  else,  without 
guessing  that  such  was  the  case.  Waldrich's  not  discovering  himself 
seemed  to  her  somewhat  suspicious,  and  she  resolved  silently  to 
investigate  his  motives. 

Waldrich  had  in  truth  no  motive,  but  only  sought  an  opportunity 
to  surprise  the  family  by  naming  himself.  When  he  was  called  in  the 
•evening  to  tea  he  found  no  one  in  the  room  but  Frederica.  She 
came  home  from  paying  a  visit,  and  threw  off  her  shawl ;  Waldrich 
-advanced  towards  her. 

"I  have  to  thank  you,  Miss  Bantes,"  said  he,  "for  defending  my 
friend  Waldrich." 

"You  know  him,  captain?" 

"  He  often  thought  of  you,  though  certainly  not  so  often  as  you 

"  He  was  brought  up  in  our  house ;'  it  is,  however,  somewhat  un- 
grateful of  him  that  since  he  quitted  us  he  has  never  come  even 
to  visit  us.     Does  he  conduct  himself  well — is  he  liked  ?  " 

"  No  fault  is  found  with  him.  No  one  has  so  much  reason  to 
-complain  of  him  as  you,  Miss  Bantes." 

"  Then  he  must  be  a  worthy  man,  for  I  have  nothing  to  say  against 

"  But  yet  I  know  he  is  still  in  your  debt." 

"  He  owes  me  nothing." 

"  He  spoke  of  some  money  for  his  equipments  when  he  wished  to 
join  the  army,  and  which  his  guardian  refused  him." 

"  I  gave,  not  lent  it  to  him." 

"  Is  he  on  that  account  less  in  your  debt,  Thusnelda  !" 

At  that  word  Frederica  stared  at  the  commandant,  the  truth 
-dawned  upon  her,  and  she  blushed  as  she  recognised  him. 

"  It  is  impossible  !  "  cried  she,  in  joyful  surprise. 

"  Well,  dear  Frederica,  if  I  may  venture  to  call  you  so,  though  I 
<lare  no  longer  use  the  sweet  familiar  Thou,  the  debtor — the  sinner — is 
before  you  ;  forgive  him.  If  he  had  but  earlier  known  what  he  now 
knows  he  would  have  come  to  Herbesheim  not  once  but  a  thousand 
times."  He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  At  that  moment  Madame 
Bantes  entered  the  room. 

Frederica  hastened  towards  her.  "  Mamma,  do  you  know  the  com- 
mandant's name  ?  " 

u  2 

272  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Madame  Bantes  slightly  coloured,  and  said,  with  a  gentle  smiler 
"  George  Waldrich." 

"  How,  dear  mamma !  you  knew  it,  and  said  nothing ! "  said  Fredericay 
who  could  not  recover  from  her  amazement,  and  now  began  to  com- 
pare the  tall,  stout  soldier  in  regimentals  with  the  shy<  schoolboy  of 
former  times.  "  Yes,  it  is  indeed  himself,"  said  she ;  "  where  were 
my  eyes?  There  is  still  the  scar  over  the  left  eye,  which  he  got 
from  his  fall  when  he  picked  a  pear  for  me  from  the  highest  tree  ia 
the  garden.     Do  you  remember?" 

"  Ah !  do  I  not  remember  everything  ?"  said  Waldrich ;  and  he 
kissed  the  hand  of  the  old  lady,  who  had  in  former  times  been  a 
mother  to  him,  and  begged  her  forgiveness  for  never  having  paid  her 
a  personal  visit  since  he  came  of  age.  He  protested  it  was  really  not 
ingratitude  on  his  part,  for  he  had  often  recalled  this  house  to  his 
memory  with  respectful  gratitude — still  less  was  it  levity  or  indif- 
ference— but  he  could  not  himself  say  what  passed  in  his  mind  and 
prevented  his  returning  to  Herbesheim. 

"Something  of  the  same  kind,"  gently  replied  the  mother,  "  which 
hinders  happy  spirits  from  looking  back  with  pleasure  to  the  cater- 
pillar state  of  their  wretched  humanity.  You  were  in  Herbesheim 
an  orphan,  without  father  or  mother — a  stranger.  That  is  what  we 
could  never  make  you  forget.  You  were  a  boy — dependent,  often  in 
fault.  No  delightful  recollections  of  childhood  attracted  you  to  the 
town,  which  reminded  you  more  of  school  than  of  home.  When 
you  became  your  own  master,  and  grew  into  manhood,  you  felt 
yourself  happier  in  other  places  than  you  could  be  with  us." 
.   Waldrich  looked  at  the  speaker  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  still  the  same  amiable,  good,  sensible  mother  that 
you  ever  were.  You  are  right.  But  yet  I  feel  myself  more  at  home 
in  Herbesheim  that  I  myself  could  expect ;  and  I  acknowledge  the 
contrast  between  my  former  position  and  my  present  one  may  in 
some  measure  contribute  to  it  Would  I  had  come  earlier !  But 
let  your  noble  heart  receive  me  once  more  as  an  adopted  son." 

Madame  Bantes  could  not  answer  the  question,  for  Herr  Bantes 
suddenly  entered  the  room,  and  seated  himself  at  the  tea-table* 
When  Frederica  explained  to  him  who  his  guest  was  he  started, 
offered  his  hand  to  the  commandant,  and  said  :  "  You  are  most 
welcome,  Herr  Waldrich.  You  were  but  a  little  fellow*  and  are  now 
grown  out  of  all  knowledge.  Herr  Waldrich,  or  Herr  von  Waldrich,. 
and  such  like — are  you  a  noble?" 


"And  the  bit  of  ribbon  there  in  your  button-hole?  What  does 
that  mean?" 

The  Dead  Stranger.  273 

"  That  I  and  my  company  took  an  enemy's  redoubt,  and  main- 
tained it  against  repeated  attacks." 

"  How  many  men  did  that  cost  ?" 

"  Twelve  killed,  and  seventeen  wounded." 

"  So,  nine-and-twenty  human  creatures  for  the  eighth  of  an  ell  of 
ribbon.  A  plague  upon  such  goods,  which  the  Prince  sells  so  dear, 
and  which  may  nevertheless  be  bought  in  any  paltry  shop  for  a 
couple  of  kreutzers.  Come,  let  us  sit  down ;  and,  Frederica,  give  us 
our  tea.  Have  you  much  prize-money  ?  How  do  you  stand  with 
your  banker?" 

Waldrich  shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiled,  and  said  :  "  We  did  not 
•engage  in  the  campaign  for  prize-money,  but  for  the  sake  of  our 
•country,  to  save  it  from  the  rapacity  of  the  French." 

"  Good,  good.  Those  are  sentiments  I  quite  approve,  and  it  is, 
moreover,  quite  right  to  stick  to  them  with  an  empty  purse.  And 
the  little  fortune  left  you  by  your  father,  is  it  safe  and  untouched?" 

Waldrich  coloured,  and  added,  smiling  :  "  One  thing  I  am  sure  of, 
that  I  shall  never  lose  it  again." 


It  was  scarcely  noised  abroad  in  the  little  town  who  the  com- 
mandant was,  when  all  his  old  acquaintance  came  around  him. 
Waldrich  got  into  the  society  of  the  most  respectable  families,  and 
•was  the  most  welcome  guest  in  every  party.  He  was  clever,  witty, 
brave,  an  amusing  story-tejler ;  learned  with  the  learned,  scientific 
with  the  scientific ;  he  drew  well ;  played  the  piano  and  flute  with 
<ase ;  danced  admirably ;  and  both  mothers  and  daughters  agreed 
that  he  was  a  handsome,  but  volatile,  and  therefore  a  most  especially 
•dangerous  young  man.  What  they  meant  by  dangerous,  none  of  the 
fair  ladies  could  quite  clearly  explain,  or  whether  his  modest  manners 
increased  or  diminished  the  danger. 

Meanwhile  no  damsel  in  the  little  town,  whether  fair  or  not,  enter- 
tained a  thought  of  either  winning  a  heart  or  losing  one.  Each  lady, 
•on  the  contrary,  was  more  than  usually  on  her  guard.  The  cause  of 
-this  reserve  will  not  be  easily  guessed,  except  by  those  resident  in 
Herbesheim,  or  acquainted  with  the  written  chronicles  of  the  town ; 
.and  those  who  are  now  informed  of  it  will  have  some  difficulty  in 
believing  it ;  and  yet  it  is  undeniably  true,  however  improbable  it  may « 

This  was  exactly  the  year  for  the  centenary  visit  of  the  so-called 
44  Dead  Stranger,"  who  was  looked  upon  as  a  fatal  acquaintance, 

274  The  Gentleman! s  Magazine. 

especially  by  all  young  maidens  on  the  point  of  marriage.  Nobody- 
seemed  to  know  precisely  what  connection  there  was  between  the 
two.  However,  the  story  ran  that  this  spectre,  which  haunted  the 
town  of  Herbesheim  once  every  hundred  years,  took  up  his  abode 
there  from  the  first  till  the  last  day  in  Advent,  never  hurt  a  child,  but 
paid  his  addresses  to  every  engaged  young  lady,  and  ended  by  twisting, 
her  neck.  In  the  morning  she  was  always  found  dead  in  bed,  with, 
her  face  where  the  back  of  her  head  should  be.  What,  however, 
distinguished  this  spectre  from  every  other  ghost  in  the  world  is  that  he 
not  only  carried  on  his  affairs  at  the  proper,  lawful,  ghostly  hour — 
between  eleven  and  twelve  at  night — but  appeared  in  broad,  cheerful 
daylight,  was  fashionably  dressed  like  any  other  gentleman,  and 
walked  about,  going  where  he  liked,  and  introducing  himself  where 
he  pleased.  This  strange  visitant  must  have  had  plenty  of 
money,  and,  what  was  worst  of  all,  if  he  found  a  betrothed  bride 
of  another,  he  would  himself  assume  the  form  of  a  wooer,  merely  for 
the  purpose  of  bewitching  the  poor  girl's  heart,  filling  her  head  with 
love  fancies,  and,  at  length,  twisting  her  neck  at  night. 

No  one  could  give  an  account  of  the  origin  of  this  tradition.  In- 
the  parish  register  were  to  be  found  the  names  of  three  young 
women  who  had  suddenly  died  just  at  the  time  of  Advent  in  1 720.  On 
the  margin  were  the  following  words,  by  way  of  note  : — "  With  their 
necks  twisted,  as  a  hundred  years  ago;  God  be  gracious  to  their  poor 
souls."  Now,  if  this  remark  on  the  margin  of  the  church  book  was 
no  proof  of  the  fact  to  any  reasonable  man,  it  at  least  proved  that 
the  tradition  was  more  than  a  hundred  years  old ;  nay,  that  in  all 
probability  something  similar  must  have  occurred  two  hundred  years 
before,  inasmuch  as  the  church  book  referred  to  it.  The  older 
registers  were,  unfortunately,  not  forthcoming.  They  were  de- 
stroyed in  a  fire  which  took  place  during  the  Spanish  War  of 

However  that  might  be,  the  tradition  was  well  known  to  everybody.. 
Every  one  protested  it  was  an  absurd  old  woman's  ghost  story ;  but 
nevertheless,  every  one  looked  forward  with,  I  might  say,  curious  anxiety 
to  the  approaching  season  of  Advent  to  hear  what  might  be  the 
upshot.  Por,  as  the  most  cool-headed  men  said  privately  among 
themselves,  there  may  be,  as  Hamlet  says,  after  all,  "  many  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  not  dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy."  The  old 
clergyman  of  the  place,  who  received  more  visitors  than  usual  to 
read  with  their  own  eyes  the  wonderful  passage  in  the  register,, 
expressed  himself  somewhat  dubiously,  although  he  was  a  sensible 
man.     He  used  to  say  either  "  I  shall  be  greatly  astonished  if — but  I 

T/ie  Dead  Stranger.  275 


don't  believe  it,"  or,  "God  forbid  that  I  should  have  to  enter  any  such 
thing  in  the  register." 

The  most  incredulous  were  the  young  men.  They  made  them- 
selves audaciously  merry  on  the  occasion.  The  young  girls  also 
pretended  to  be  very  valorous,  but  it  was  mere  bravado.  In  private 
each  thought  to  herself : — "  The  gentlemen  may  laugh  if  they  please  ; 
after  all,  it  is  not  their  necks  which  are  in  danger,  but — and  that  is 
really  horrible  to  think  of  ! — only  ours." 

The  effect  of  this  tradition,  or  rather  of  this  superstition,  was 
noticed  by  nobody  more  than  by  the  old  clergyman;  for  if  there 
chanced  to  be  a  love  affair  or  projected  marriage  going  on  in  the 
town,  the  parties  were  in  the  greatest  hurry  to  get  the  wedding  over 
before  Advent  Sunday  ;  and  if  there  was  no  hope  of-  speedily 
solemnising  the  marriage,  the  engagement  was  entirely  broken  off, 
even  though  hearts  were  broken  into  the  bargain. 

It  can  now  be  clearly  understood  what  the  fair  Herbesheim  damsels 
meant  by  danger,  when  against  their  inclinations  they  were  found  to 
acknowledge  the  commandant's  powers  of  pleasing.  It  was  to  them 
literally  an  affair  of  life  and  death,  and  the  visit  of  the  "  Dead 
Stranger"  was  a  subject  of  great  and  universal  anxiety.  For  this 
reason  due  allowance  must  be  made  for  the  somewhat  unnatural  vow, 
made  in  secret,  not  to  fall  in  love  at  all  before  or  during  Advent,  and 
even  if  an  angel  came  from  heaven  he  would  then  have  no  better 
chance  of  their  regard  than  an  ordinary  mortal.  I  cannot  exactly 
say  whether  the  fair  Frederica  Bantes  might  have  made  a  similar  vow 
to  that  of  the  other  Advent  nuns  in  Herbesheim,  yet  this  is  certain, 
she  did  not  honour  Waldrich  with  greater  regard  than  any  other  man, 
for  she  was  courteous  to  all.  The  commandant  passed  a  blissful 
summer  in  Herr  Bantes's  house,  and  was  treated  like  one  of  the 
family.  The  old  familiar  ways  of  his  childhood  were  again  unex- 
pectedly and  more  agreeably  resumed ;  so  that  he  called  Herr  and 
Madame  Bantes  "  father  "  and  "  mother,"  as  formerly ;  Herr  Bantes 
gave  him  from  time  to  time  a  lecture  (as  he  himself  called  it,  when 
giving  vent  to  his  vexation  or  his  temper  in  sententious  phrase) ;  and 
Madame  Bantes,  whenever  the  commandant  was  going  out,  took  a 
survey  of  his  dress,  had  his  clothes  and  linen  under  her  own  care, 
supplied  his  little  wants  as  though  he  were  yet  a  minor,  as  in  former 
days,  even  kept  an  account  of  his  pocket-money,  and  in  spite  of  his 
resistance  at  first,  every  month  replenished  his  purse  with  the  trifling 
sums  necessary  for  his  little  personal  expenses.  Waldrich  was  com- 
mandant not  only  in  the  town,  but  also  in  the  house,  gave  his  opinion 
on  all  subjects,  and  was  called  upon  to  decide  in  every  dispute. 

2  76  The  Gentleman9 s  Magazine. 

Between  Frederica  and  himself,  also,  as  they  gradually  got  accus- 
tomed to  each  other,  and  forgot,  as  it  were,  that  they  were  grown 
up,  the  tone  of  bygone  days  of  childhood  seemed  unintentionally 
renewed,  and  they  lived  happily  together,  as  before ;  but  sometimes, 
also  as  before,  they  quarrelled,  and  that  not  seldom. 

It  is  true  that  the  ladies  in  the  town,  both  married  and  unmarried, 
made,  as  is  always  the  case,  their  feminine  remarks  on  Waldrich's 
position.  For  the  fair  inhabitants  of  Herbesheim  entertained  one 
peculiar  notion,  from  which  prejudice,  of  course,  the  female  sex  in 
other  towns  is  altogether  exempt — viz.,  that  a  young  man  of  eight- 
and-twenty  and  a  pretty  girl  of  twenty  cannot  live  for  a  whole 
month  under  the  same  roof  without  feeling  certain  tender  emotions. 
Nevertheless,  under  Herr  Bantes's  roof,  it  was  so  little  an  affair  of 
the  heart  that  they  might  have  continued  together  or  apart  all  day 
long  without  discovering  where  that  delicate  machine  was  placed. 
This  was  so  manifest  that  the  fair  ones  of  Herbesheim  at  length 
became  convinced  it  was  a  case  of  exception  to  the  general  rule,  for 
no  look,  no  feature  of  the  face,  no  motion  of  the  body,  no  tone  of 
the  voice,  no  single  letter  in  the  vocabulary  of  love,  betrayed  aught 
else  saving  a  pure  brotherly  and  sisterly  state  of  things,  as  in  the 
former  boy  and  girl  of  early  days. 

The  observant  eye  of  Madame  Bantes  would  have  quickly  detected 
if  anything  like  the  customary  love-making  were  going  on — women 
have  a  peculiar  faculty  for  that,  which  men  do  not  possess — but  she 
discovered  nothing,  and  was  satisfied.  As  to  Herr  Bantes,  he  never 
dreamed  of  such  a  possibility.  In  his  life  he  had  never  had  a  notion 
of  what  is  called  love,  and  would  have  had  just  as  much  fear  of  his 
daughter  becoming  mad  as  of  her  passionately  loving  any  young  man 
for  himself  alone.  He  knew  that  Madame  Bantes  had  been  affianced 
to  himself  without  their  having  once  seen  each  other,  and  he  had  given 
his  father  his  consent  and  engaged  himself  as  soon  as  he  knew  that 
his  future  bride  was  an  amiable  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  house, 
had  30,000  dollars  for  her  fortune,  and  still  greater  expectations. 

This  way  of  treating  the  affairs  of  courtship  and  marriage,  the 
expediency  of  which  his  own  experience  had  afforded  him  ample  and 
undeniable  proof — for  he  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  husbands  and 
fathers — appeared  to  him  the  most  rational.  He  might  have  had*  his 
daughter  married  long  since,  for  there  was  no  lack  of  lovers ;  but  he 
had  not  done  so,  partly  owing  to  his  unwillingness  to  lose  his  daughter, 
to  whom  he  was  more  attached  than  he  was  himself  aware,  and  partly 
because  of  the  difficulties  which  arose  when  it  came  to  money  matters 
with  the  suitors.     He  affirmed  that  the  world  could  exist  only  by 

The  Dead  Stranger.  277 

the  equilibrium  of  its  solid  parts,  otherwise  it  must  have  tumbled  to 
pieces  a  thousand  years  ago ;  and  on  that  account  he  firmly  held  that 
the  due  proportion  of  fortune  on  both  sides  was  the  proper  foundation 
of  the  marriage  bond,  and  both  Madame  Bantes  and  Frederica  had 
hitherto  looked  on  this  as  perfectly  reasonable. 

But  now,  however,  Frederica  was  quite  twenty  years  of  age.  The 
old  man  reflected  that  he  had  married  his  wife  when  she  was  much 
younger,  and  he  thought  more  seriously  of  getting  his  daughter  married. 
Madame  Bantes  was  of  the  same  opinion,  and  Frederica  had  nothing 
to  say  against  it.  A  young  married  woman  of  twenty — the  very 
-expression  was  a  pleasant  one,  it  conveys  notions  of  tenderness.  But 
a  young  girl  of  twenty  can  scarcely  be  talked  of  without  the 
thought  entering  into  the  mind,  "How  long  will  she  remain  young?" 
Herr  Bantes  was  sensible  of  this,  and  made  his  arrangements 
accordingly.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  celebrating  several  domestic 
festivals  in  his  own  house,  to  which  none  but  those  connected  in 
some  measure  with  his  own  family  were  admitted.  On  the  grand 
anniversary  of  his  marriage  alone  were  his  friends  in  the  town  invited. 
The  old  book-keeper,  overseer,  and  cashier,  who  enjoyed  the  honour 
of  dining  with  Herr  Bantes,  were  reckoned  among  the  family,  and 
their  birthdays  were  always  celebrated ;  no  wonder,  then,  that  our 
friend  the  lieutenant's  was  to  be  formally  kept.  It  was  a  law  on 
each  such  occasion  that  no  one  in  the  house  was  to  presume  to  be 
out  of  temper  with  the  person  whose  birthday  it  was,  no  one  was  to 
refuse  him  any  reaspnable  request.  Every  one  was  to  make  him  some 
present  of  more  or  less  value.  On  these  occasions  the  dinner  was  to 
be  of  a  more  choice  description,  and  then  only  was  the  silver  service 
used,  and  the  silver  candlesticks  in  the  evening  ;  and  the  hero  of  the 
day  occupied  the  post  of  honour,  viz. — the  usual  seat  of  the  master 
of  the  house.  The  presents  were  always  given  just  before  dinner, 
and  the  health  of  the  person  was  drunk  in  bumpers ;  and  when 
dinner  was  over,  he  received  from  every  one  present  an  embrace  and 
a  kiss.  Herr  Bantes  had  inherited  the  praiseworthy  custom  from  his 
father's  house,  and  retained  it  still. 

The  whole  of  this  took  place  on  Waldrich's  birthday  according 
to  the  old  established,  and,  to  him,  well  known  custom.  When  he 
entered  the  dining-room  all  the  party  were  already  assembled.  Herr 
Bantes  came  forward  to  meet  him  with  his  congratulations,  and  gave 
him  an  enclosure  in  silver  paper.  It  was  a  draft  for  a  considerable 
sum,  drawn  upon  himself,  and  payable  at  sight  Madame  Bantes 
came  next ;  she  brought  him  a  complete  captain's  uniform  of  the 
finest  cloth,   with  all  the  necessary  accessories.      Frederica  next 

278  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

approached  with  a  silver  plate.  On  half  a  dozen  very  fine  neckcloths, 
hemmed  and  made  by  her  own  fair  hands,  lay  a  letter  with  the  great 
seal  of  the  regiment,  and  addressed  to  "  Captain  George  Waldrich." 
The  lieutenant  started  when  he  broke  open  the  letter  and  'saw  a 
captain's  commission  for  himself.  He  had  long  been  hoping  for 
promotion,  but  had  not  expected  to  get  it  so  soon.  He  was  made 
captain  of  his  company;  his  predecessor,  now  absent  on  leave,  was 
promoted  to  be  major.  "  But,  my  worthy  captain,"  said  Frederica, 
with  her  own  peculiarly  graceful  smile,  "  promise  you  will  not  be 
angry  with  me  !  I  will  confess  the  letter  arrived  a  week  ago  during 
your  absence,  and  I  intercepted  it  to  keep  it  for  to-day.  I  have 
been  sufficiently  punished  by  my  week's  mortal  fear  lest  you  might 
hear  of  your  appointment  somewhere  else  and  find  this  letter  wanting."" 

Waldrich  was  in  no  mood  to  be  angry,  and  in  his  amazement  he 
could  hardly  utter  a  word  of  acknowledgment  and  thanks  to  the 
others  who  offered  him  their  congratulations  and  gifts. 

"  The  main  thing,"  exclaimed  Herr  Bantes  joyfully,  "  is  that  the 
newly-made  captain  is  to  remain  with  us  and  his  company.  I  also 
have  had  all  through  the  week  a  sort  of  mortal  fear  and  such  like 
that  our  George  would  be  obliged  to  leave  us.  Come,  Mr.  Book- 
keeper, quick  to  the  cellar ;  march,  I  say,  to  No.  9,  to  my  old  nectar  ; 
and  send  forthwith  a  dozen  bottles  to  the  officers  of  the  regiment,  to 
each  of  the  sub-officers,  sergeant,  corporal,  &c,  a  bottle  and  a  gulden, 
and  to  each  private  half  a  gulden,  and  tell  them  their  lieutenant  is 
now  their  captain.  Let  them  all  drink  his  health,. but  not  plague  him 
to-day  with  compliments  and  such  like.  To-morrow  as  much  and  as 
many  as  they  please."     The  book-keeper  obeyed. 

During  the  dinner  it  was  evident  to  all  how  fond  Herr  Bantes  was 
of  his  former  ward.  In  his  exuberant  gaiety  he  came  out  with  num- 
berless droll  conceits.  Waldrich  had  never  seen  him  so  merry,  and 
was  exceedingly  touched  by  it. 

"  Now,  my  dear  captain  and  capitalist,"  cried  the  lively  old  man  to 
him  across  the  table,  "  I  intended,  God  knows,  that  the  draft  I  gave 
you  should  be  a  sort  of  pocket-money  for  travelling  expenses.  That 
was  the  object  of  it.  Now  I  am  vexed  with  myself  for  being  so 
faint-hearted.  You  don't  want  it,  and  I  ought  to  have  given  you 
something  better.  Forget  not  the  law  of  the  house.  You  may  make 
any  request  you  please,  and  I  must  grant  it.  So  out  with  it  without 
any  ceremony.  Ask  whatever  you  like,  it  is  yours,  even  though  it  be 
my  handsome  new  powdered  wig  and  such  like." 

The  captain's  eyes  were  moist  with  tears:  "I  have  no  further 
request  to  make,"  was  his  reply. 

The  Dead  Stranger.  •  2  79 

"  Come,  make  haste  and  decide.  Such  an  opportunity  may  not 
occur  again  for  a  year,"  cried  the  old  man. 

"  Then  allow  me,  my  dear  father,  to  give  you  a  cordial,  grateful 

"  Aye,  thou  child  of  my  heart,  that  is  thine  at  a  cheap  rate,"  cried 
Herr  Bantes. 

Both  sprang  at  the  same  moment  from  their  seats,  tenderly  em- 
braced each  other,  and  both  separated  with  hearts  deeply  affected. 
There  followed  a  dead  silence.  Frederica,  her  mother,  and  the  rest 
of  the  party  jpartook  of  their  emotion.  That  Herr  Bantes  should  have 
addressed  the  significant  word  Thou  to  the  captain  was  to  all  present 
a  most  unprecedented  circumstance. 

The  old  gentleman  was,  however,  the  first  to  recover  himself,  to 
compose  his  features,  and  to  break  silence.  "  Now,  enough  of  that 
nonsense;  let  us  talk  of  something  rational." 

He  raised  his  glass  and  told  the  rest  to  fill  theirs.  He  then  touched 
glasses  with  Waldrich,  and  said  : — "  Wherever  there  is  a  Darby  there 
must  needs  be  a  Joan,  consequently  let  us  all  join  in  chorus ;  here  is 
a  captain,  let  us  drink  long  life,  happiness,  and  such  like,  to  the 
captain's  future  lady !" 

Waldrich  could  not  forbear  laughing. 

"  May  she  be  amiable,  virtuous,  and  domestic,"  said  Madame 
Bantes,  while  she  touched  his  glass  with  hers. 

"  Like  you,  my  dear  mother !"  replied  the  captain. 

"  And  the  most  charming  creature  in  the  world,"  said  Frederica, 
doing  the  same  as  her  mother. 

"  Like  you,  Miss  Bantes  ! "  was  his  answer,  and  he  thanked  her. 

Frederica  shook  her  head,  and  in  a  tone  of  half  angry  and  half 
jesting  threat,  held  up  her  finger  and  said,  laughing:  "One  must 
put  up  with  much  from  the  hero  of  the  day  which  at  another  time 
would  be  reproved,"  and  she  made  a  sign  as  if  punishing  a  naughty 

The  book-keeper,  cashier,  overseer,  and  clerk  made  their  own 
innocent  remarks  upon  this  singular  scene  :  first  as  regards  the  bold 
offer  which  Herr  Bantes  made  the  captain  of  granting  him  whatever 
he  chose  to  ask,  an  offer  which  Waldrich  so  little  understood  ;  then 
the  health  drunk  in  honour  of  the  captain's  future  lady.  Truly  the 
favourite  of  Fortune  must  be  blind  if  he  did  not  comprehend  what 
the  old  father  meant  him  to  ask. 

"  My  opinion  is,"  said  the  overseer  in  a  whisper  to  the  cashier,  as 
they  rose  from  table,  "the  affair  is  settled  to-day.  What  think  you? 
We  shall  have  a  wedding  soon." 

280  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 


The  cashier  replied,  also  in  a  low  voice  :  "  I  shudder  at  the  idea. 
I  am  thinking  of  the  '  Dead  Stranger,'  and  cannot  help  doing  so." 

The  formality  of  the  birthday  kiss  now  began..  Each  person  went 
round  the  table,  meeting  one  another  and  exchanging  mutual  good 
wishes.  Waldrich  received  an  embrace  and  a  kiss  from  each.  He 
went  up  to  Miss  Bantes.  With  unembarrassed  courtesy  they  met 
and  exchanged  a  kiss ;  but  no  sooner  was  that  done  than  they  looked 
steadfastly  in  each  other's  face,  like  persons  who  had  quite  unex- 
pectedly recognised  each  other  as  old  friends.  Both  were  silent ; 
their  eyes  met  and  seemed  to  penetrate  each  other's  thoughts,  they 
bent  forward  once  more,  and  the  kiss  was  repeated  as  though  the* 
first  was  incomplete.  I  know  not  whether  anybody  remarked  it ; 
but  this  I  know,  that  the  mother  discreetly  let  her  eyes  fall  upon  the 
diamond  ring  on  her  finger.  Waldrich  suffered  the  cashier  and 
book-keeper  to  embrace  him,  but  he  felt  no  other  kiss,  and  requested 
from  no  one  a  second,  but  was  satisfied  with  the  first ;  and  in  truth 
he  looked  altogether  as  though  his  broad  chest  was  too  narrow  for 
him.  And  Miss  Bantes  walked  towards  the  window  looking  as  if 
something  had  happened  to  her. 

Nevertheless,  all  that  passed  away ;  and  the  former  cheerfulness 
was  restored.  Two  carriages  were  standing  before  the  door  ready ; 
and  the  party  took  a  drive,  and  spent  the  delightful  autumn  after- 
noon in  the  country. 


The  following  day  matters  returned  to  their  ordinary  course.  The 
new  captain  had  business  of  various  sorts  to  transact:  he  had 
received  leave  of  absence  to  visit  his  general :  he  had  also  many 
affairs  relating  to  the  company  to  arrange  with  his  predecessor.  All 
that  made  an  absence  of  several  weeks  necessary.  He  quitted  Herr 
Bantes's  house  as  though  it  were  that  of  his  father;  and  the  good  people 
took  leave  of  him  like  a  son,  with  parental  admonitions,  good  advice, 
and  affectionate  wishes,  but  without  any  sorrow  or  sadness  for  the  separa- 
tion, as  they  felt  sure  of  his  speedy  return.  Waldrich  and  Frederica 
parted  just  as  they  used  to  do  when  she  was  going  to  a  party,  or  foe 
to  parade ;  only  she  reminded  him  that  he  must  not  fail  to  be  back 
for  her  birthday  on  the  ioth  of  November.  I  had  then  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  my  friend  on  his  way  at  my  house.  He  was  delighted  at 
his  promotion,  but  was  doubting  whether  (from  what  his  general 
said)  he  could  depend  on  remaining  long  with  his  company  at 

The  Dead  Stranger.  281 

He  repeated  the  same,  and  in  the  same  unembarrassed  manner, 
when  he  returned  to  Herr  Bantes,  who  regretted  that  they  were  soon 
likely  again  to  lose  him^ 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  the  old  man,  "  we  won't  meet  the  evil  half- 
way. Sooner  or  later,  we  must  all  be  marched  off  to  another  garri- 
son. What  matter  here  on  earth  whether  we  live  in  this  or  that  town  ? 
We  are  near  enough  to  each  other,  sometimes  too  near.  Those  con- 
founded English,  and  such  like,  are  near  enough  to  my  manufactory, 
for  instance,  to  be  a  dead  weight  upon  it." 

It  may  be  considered  as  a  matter  of  course  that  Frederica's  birth- 
day was  celebrated  with  the  ordinary  forms  and  festivities.  Waldrich 
had  brought  for  her  from  the  capital  a  new  and  elegant  harp,  and 
some  choice  music,  with  which  he  presented  her  when  it  came  to  his 
turn.  A  broad  pink  ribbon  fluttered  over  the  beautifully  finished 
instrument.  Herr  Bantes  was  in  the  highest  possible  spirits  :  he 
walked  about  the  room  in  restless  self-satisfaction,  rubbing  his  hands 
and  laughing  to  himself  so  complacently,  that  his  wife,  who  had  been 
looking  at  him  in  astonishment,  could  not  refrain  from  softly  whisper- 
ing to  the  commandant :  "  Papa  has  some  very  agreeable  surprise  for 
us  in  reserve."     And  in  truth  the  judicious  matron  was  not  mistaken. 

After  the  due  congratulations  and  presents  were  offered,  the  party  took 
their  seats  at  the  dinner  table  :  but  when  Frederica  took  her  napkin 
off  her  plate,  she  found  on  it  a  valuable  necklace  of  oriental  pearls,  a 
splendid  diamond  ring,  and  a  letter  directed  to  herself.  The  young 
lady  was  most  agreeably  surprised,  and  took  up  the  shining  string 
of  pearls  and  the  sparkling  ring  with  girlish  delight  Her  father 
looked  at  her  with  a  sortof  ecstasy,  and  was  beyond  measure  pleased 
at  the  surprise  manifested  by  herself  and  all  present.  The  ring  and 
necklace  went  the  round  the  table,  still  lying  on  the  plate,  that  the 
beauty  of  both  might  be  better  seen.  Frederica  meanwhile  broke  open 
the  letter  and  read  it :  her  features  betrayed  yet  more  amazement  than 
she  had  exhibited  at  sight  of  the  presents.  Herr  Bantes  was  in  a 
state  of  rapture.  The  mother  studied  with  anxious  curiosity  her 
daughter's  agitated  features. 

Frederica  was  for  some  time  silent,  and  thoughtfully  pondered  over 
the  letter :  at  length  she  put  it  down. 

"  Let  the  letter  also  go  round,"  cried  the  delighted  father. 

Silent  and  confused,  she  gave  the  letter  to  her  mother,  who  sat 
beside  her. 

"  Now,  Rietchen,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  has  astonishment  taken 
away  your  breath,  and  such  like?  Confess,  papa  knows  how  to 
manage  things ! " 

282  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 


"  Who  is  Herr  von  Hahn?"  asked  Frederica,  with  a  sorrowful  look. 

"  Who  else  but  the  son  of  my  former  partner  Hahn,  the  celebrated 
banker  ?  Who  else  could  you  expect  ?  The  old  Hahn  has  managed 
his  affairs  better  than  I  have  done  with  my  manufactory.  He  has 
now  retired  from  business.  His  son,  young  Hahn,  takes  the  manage- 
ment of  all  his  father's  concerns,  and  you  are  to  be  his  bride." 

Madame  Bantes  made  a  slight  motion  of  the  head  indicating  dis- 
approval, and  gave  the  commandant  the  letter.  The  contents  were 
as  follows  : — 

"  Dearest  Miss  Bantes, — A  yet  unknown  stranger  regrets  infi- 
nitely the  impossibility  of  being  present  at  your  birthday  festival  save 
in  heart  and  mind ;  his  physician  having  forbidden  him  to  travel  in 
this  stormy  weather.  Alas,  that  I  must  as  yet  subscribe  myself  an 
unknown  stranger !  would  that  I  could  fly  to  Herbesheim  in  lieu  of 
these  lines,  and  there  solicit  your  hand,  and  the  fulfilment  of  that 
which  our  good  fathers,  out  of  the  cordiality  of  youthful  friendship, 
have  determined  upon  in  regard  to  our  union,  which  is  now  the 
object  of  my  impatient  desires.  My  adored  Miss  Bantes,  although 
still  an  invalid,  I  shall  hasten  to  Herbesheim  as  soon  as  the  weather 
at  all  admits  of  my  doing  so.  I  bless  my  happy  fate,  and  it  shall  be 
the  employment  of  my  life  that  you  too  may  rejoice  in  our  united 
<lestinies.  Your  hand  alone  can  I  now  venture  to  solicit ;  not  yet  the 
heart — of  that  I  am  aware.  The  latter  must  be  won :  but  allow  me  at 
least  to  hope  that  I  may  deserve  it.  If  you  knew  how  happy  a  single 
line  from  your  hand  would  make  me,  how  much  more  efficacious 
in  curing  and  strengthening  me  it  would  be  than  all  my  physician's 
skill,  you  would  not  let  me  beg  in  vain. — Permit  me  to  subscribe  my- 
self, in  all  respect  and  love, 

"  Your  affianced  husband, 

"  Edward  von  Hahn." 

The  commandant  gazed  long  and  earnestly  upon  the  letter:  he  did 
not  look  like  a  man  reading,  but  like  one  thinking,  or  rather  dream- 
ing. Meanwhile  Herr  Bantes  absolutely  insisted  that  Frederica 
should  put  off  her  girlish  affectation,  and  openly  and  honestly 
acknowledge  that  the  thing  gave  her  pleasure. 

"But,  papa,  how  can  I  do  that  when  I  have  never  seen  this 
banker,  this  von  Hahn,  in  my  life  ?  " 

"  Little  fool,  I  understand  you,  of  course :  but  I  can  set  your 
mind  at  rest.  He  is  a  genteel,  slight,  tall  young  man,  with  a  hand- 
some pale  face.     Some  time  ago  he  was  rather  sickly,  which  arose 

The  Dead  Stranger.  28 


probably  from  his  rapid  growth :  for  he  shot  up  most  marvellously 

"  When  did  you  see  him,  then,  papa  ?  " 

"  The  last  time  I  went  to  the  capital.  Let  me  see,  it  may  be 
ten  or  twelve  years  ago.  I  brought  you  back  a  pretty  doll; 
what  did  you  call  it  ?  It  was  almost  as  big  as  yourself.  Babette, 
Rosette,  Lisette,  or  such  like.  Now  you  know.  Young  Hahn  can- 
not be  much  above  twenty.  A  handsome,  pale-faced  youth,  I  tell 
you.     Only  see  him." 

"  Papa,  1  would  rather  have  seen^him  first,  than  read  his  letter 
with  such  a  proposal." 

"  It  is  very  vexing  that  he  could  not  come  himself  to  your  birthday, 
as  we  old  ones  had  arranged  it :  when  I  was  engaged  to  mamma,  I 
came  myself.  Now,  mamma,  what  do  you  say  ?  Confess,  your  eyes 
are  opened  at  last.  I  have  been  longing  to  tell  the  secret,  and  I 
should  have  liked  to  tell  you  from  the  first.  But  I  know  you  women : 
there  would  have  been  my  secret  betrayed  before  the  birthday,  and 
all  surprise  blown  to  the  winds." 

Madame  Bantes  answered  rather  gravely :  "  As  a  mother,  methinks 
I  might  have  been  consulted :  the  thing  is  now  done  :  may  Heaven 
bless  your  work." 

"  But,  mamma,  I  say,  the  choice  !  As  to  the  von  before  his  name, 
in  sooth  I  would  not  give  him  a  kreutzer  for  it ;  yet  a  girl  has  no 
objection  to  be  addressed  '  Noble  lady ' — but  the  rich  banker ! 
Look'ye,  mamma,  we  manufacturers  are  after  all  nothing  more  than 
common  articles,  but  a  banker  is  always  looked  upon  in  the  com- 
mercial world  as  something  superlative,  and  such  like.  If"  old  Hahn 
does  but  crook  his  finger,  and  beckon  to  Vienna,  all  the  Court  even 
is  quickly  in  motion,  and  asking:  'What  is  Herr  von  Hahn'swill?'  If 
he  does  but  nod  his  head  towards  Berlin,  all  bow  their  heads  to  the 
earth.  Neither  the  devil,  nor  the  English,  nor  such  like,  can  get  the 
start  of  such  a  man.  Therefore,  mamma,  I  ask  once  more,  what 
do  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  an  admirable  choice,  as  you  have  made  it,"  said 
Madame  Bantes,  and  her  eyes  fell  on  her  soup  plate. 

Frederica  gave  her  mother  a  side-long  look  of  chagrin,  and 
sighed:  "And  you,  too,  mamma  !" 

While  this  was  passing,  the  commandant  continued  to  gaze  on 
the  letter. 

"  Mercy  on  us,  captain ;  haven't  you^done  reading"?  Your  soup 
is  getting  cold,"  cried  Herr  Bantes. 

Waldrich  awoke,  looked  once  more  at  the  letter,  and  then  threw  it 

284  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

from  him  hastily/  as  though  it  were  infected  with  the  plague.  He 
began  to  eat.  Another  person  took  the  letter.  The  old  father  was 
evidently  vexed  that  Frederica  did  not  appear  more  cheerful.  At 
first  he  attributed  it  all  to  the  sudden  surprise  that  words  seemed  to 
fail  the  poor  girl.  Meanwhile  he  did  not  desist,  but  continued  to- 
carry  on  his  jokes,  as  is  the  way  on  such  occasions  with  facetious 
old  gentlemen  ;  but  no  response  was  made  from  any  quarter,  saving 
that  the  book-keeper,  cashier,  and  inspector  smiled  approval,  as  in 
duty  bound. 

In  great  vexation,  he  said  at  length  to  Frederica :  "  My  child, 
tell  me  the  honest  truth.  Have  I  hit  the  mark  or  not  ?  Is  it  a  good 
stroke  or  a  bad  one  ?  Tell  your  own  father.  You  will  sing  another 
song,  my  bird,  when  young  Hahn  comes." 

"  It  may  be  so,  dear  papa,"  replied  Frederica.  "  How  can  I  in  the 
slightest  degree  doubt  your  kind,  affectionate  intention.  Let  this 
declaration  suffice." 

"  Well,  that  is  perfectly  right,  Rietchen.  A  sensible  girl  ought  to 
take  the  thing  into  consideration.  Mamma  herself  confessed  to  me 
she  did  the  same  in  her  time.  So  fill  the  glasses.  Here's  to  the 
future  bride's  health,  and  the  bridegroom's  too." 

The  father  touched  his  daughter's  glass  with  his ;  the  others  did 
the  same ;  and  cheerfulness  seemed  to  be  restored. 

"  It  is  indeed  most  vexatious  that  young  Hahn  should  fail  coming 
just  to-day,"  continued  Herr  Bantes  again.  "A  handsome,  good- 
looking  young  man,  I  tell  you.  Very  polite,  very  sociable  ;  has 
had  more  education  than  his  father.  I  wager  you  won't  give  him  up 
when  you  have  once  seen  him.  I  wager  you  kiss  papa,  and  thank 

"  Possibly,  papa,  if  so.  I  shall  do  so  gladly;  but  until  I  have  seen 
him  I  beg — I  have  a  right  on  my  birthday  to  any  reasonable 
request,  and  therefore  I  beg — not  a  word  more  about  him  till  I  have 
seen  this  unknown." 

Herr  Bantes  knit  his  brows,  and  at  length  said :  "  But  allow  me 
to  say,  Frederica,  that  is  a  silly  request.  Nevertheless  it  shall  be  so, 
though  your  mamma  made  no  such  request  in  her  time." 

"My  dear,"  said  Madame  Bantes  to  her  husband,  "don't  scold 
Frederica.  You  should  not  forget  that  to-day  is  her  birthday,  and 
she  must  not  be  annoyed  by  any  one." 

"  You  are  right,  mamma,"  replied  the  old  man ;  "  besides,  he  will 
soon  be  here  for  certain.  We  shall  soon  have  a  new  moon,  and  then 
the  weather  will  change." 

The  conversation  then  took  another  turn,  with,  indeed,  some  slight 

.    The  Dead  Stranger.  285 

constraint  at  first,  which,  however,  imperceptibly  gave  place  to  former 
case  and  good  humour.  The  commandant  alone  remained  somewhat 
cold  and  reserved,  in  spite  of  the  general  hilarity.  Madame  Bantes 
seemed  to  notice  it,  and,  contrary  to  her  custom,  filled  his  glass  more 
frequently.  Frederica  looked  over  at  him  once  or  twice,  with  a 
steadfast  inquiring  eye;  and  when  accidentally  their  eyes  met,  it 
seemed  as  though  their  hearts  were  reciprocally  asking  some  secret 
question.  In  Waldrich's  eye  was  an  expression  of  silent  reproach, 
and  in  Fredericks  heart  a  feeling  as  though  she  interpreted  this  look 
into  a  reply  which  gratified  her.  The  rest  of  the  party  talked  of  other 
things ;  the  conversation  was  lively  and  pleasant,  and  old  Bantes 
fully  recovered  his  waggish  good  humour. 

It  so  chanced  that  when  the  party  after  dinner  were  going  round 
the  table  to  give  the  beautiful  queen  of  the  fete  the  customary  kiss, 
Waldrich  and  Frederica  met  just  before"  the  father. 

"  Now  mark,  Rietchen,"  said  the  facetious  old  man — "  remember 
now,  our  George  is  a  certain  person  of  whom  I  would  not,  for  all  the 
world,  say  what  I  think  in  his  presence.  Remember  that,  and  let  the 
kiss  be  something  more  and  better  than  a  common  one.  Try  now, 
you  little  fool.'' 

Waldrich  and  Frederica  stood  face  to  face.  He  took  her  hand. 
They  gave  each  other  a  searching,  serious,  almost  melancholy  look, 
and  bent  to  exchange  the  kiss.  The  old  man  sprang  aside  with  a 
comic  gesture  to  see  the  kiss.  It  was  given;  and  both,  when  they 
withdrew,  clasped  their  hands  closer  together.  Waldrich  turned  pale, 
Frederica's  eyes  were  filled  with  tears ;  once  more  their  lips  met,  and 
then  they  seemed  on  the  point  of  separating,  but  a  third  kiss  was 
rapidly  snatched,  and  Frederica  burst  into  tears  as  she  hurried  off, 
and  Waldrich  staggered  towards  a  window,  and  began  drawing  figures 
on  the  moistened  surface  of  the  glass.  The  old  man  stood  as  though 
petrified,  turning  his  head  first  to  the  right,  then  to  the  left. 

"  What  the  deuce  does  all  this  mean  ?  What's  the  matter  with  the 
girl  ?     What's  come  over  her?" 

Madame  Bantes  let  her  eyes  again  quickly  fall  on  the  diamond 
ring  on  her  finger ;  she  knew  what  was  come  over  Frederica,  and  said 
to  Herr  Bantes  : — 

"  Papa,  have  done  now.      Let  the  girl  have  her  cry  out.  " 

"But — but — but,"  cried  the  old  man,  hastily  going  up  to  his 
daughter,  "  what  is  the  matter,  child?    What  are  you  crying  for?" 

She  continued  to  cry,  and  replied  that  indeed  she  couldn't  tell. 

"  Ah  !  that's  a  mere  pretence,  and  such  like,"  cried  the  father. 
'•  Have  you  been  annoyed  ?     Has  mamma  said  anything  ?" 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  x 

286  The  Gentleman  s  Magazitte. 

"  No." 

"  Or  perhaps  the  captain  may  have  ?" 

"  No." 

"  The  devil ;  nor  I.  Now,  tell  me,  have  I  ?  About  that  joke — 
are  you  crying  for  that  ?" 

Madame  Bantes  took  him  by  the  hand,  gently  drew  him  away 
from  Frederica,  and  said,  "  Papa,  you  have  broken  your  promise, 
and  vexed  her,  utterly  disregarded  her  request;  and  besides,  you 

"  Reminded  her  of  somebody.  You  are  right,  I  should  not  have 
done  so.  Never  mind  now,  Rietchen,  it  shan't  happen  again.  But 
who  would  have  taken  papa  up  so  quick,  and  such  like  ?" 

Frederica  composed  herself.  Her  mother  led  her  to  the  harp. 
Waldrich  was  to  tune  it.  The  flute  was  also  brought,  the  new  pieces 
of  music  tried.  Frederica  played  the  harp  admirably  to  Waldrich's 
flute  accompaniment ;  and  the  evening  was,  after  all,  one  of  pleasure 
and  enjoyment. 

And  Papa  Bantes  kept  his  word.  Not  a  syllable  more  was  said  of 
a  certain  important  somebody.  Vain  endeavour !  Only  so  much 
the  more  did  he  occupy  the  thoughts  of  the  whole  house.  Regularly 
every  morning,  noon,  and  evening  did  Herr  Bantes  go  and  tap  the 
barometer  to  make  the  quicksilver  rise,  and  extort  fine  weather  for 
invalid  travellers.  Frederica,  when  nobody  saw  her,  tapped  too,  to 
make  the  quicksilver  fall ;  and  Waldrich  and  Madame  Bantes  watched 
privately,  and  much  oftener  than  before,  Torricelli's  prophetic  tube. 

"  The  weather  is  clearly  improving,"  said  Herr  Bantes  one  day, 
when  alone  in  the  room  with  his  wife.  "  The  clouds  are  dispersing. 
I  think  he  must  now  be  on  the  way." 

"  God  forbid,  papa  !  It  seems  to  me  far  more  advisable  for  you 
to  write  to  Herr  von  Hahn  not  to  come  to  Herbesheim  before 
Christmas,  although  I  have  no  faith  in  the  silly  gossiping  story ;  yet 
one  can  scarcely  forbear  being  somewhat  uneasy." 

"  What,  mamma,  are  you  thinking  of  the  Dead  Stranger?  Nonsense ; 
for  shame  I" 

"  I  grant  it,  my  dear,  it  is  folly ;  but  if  anything  happened  to- 
our  dear  child  at  the  season  of  the  Advent,  people  would  always — 
nay,  if  Rietchen  were  at  all  unwell  the  mere  thought  would  be 
sufficient  to  increase  the  illness.  And  though  I  don't  believe  in 
ghosts,  and  though  Frederica  laughs  at  it,  yet  we  really  might  be 
afraid,  for  instance,  to  go  round  by  the  church  at  night.  It  is  incidental 
to  human  nature.  Put  off  the  formal  betrothal  till  after  the  fata! 
time.    After  Advent  the  young  people  will  have  abundance  of  time 

The  Dead  Stranger.  287 

to  form  acquaintance,  engagement,  and  marriage.  Why,  then,  such 
haste  ?    A  delay  of  a  few  weeks  would  do  no  harm." 

"  For  shame,  mamma  !  Don't  insist  on  my  doing  so  foolish  a  thing. 
For  that  very  reason — because  people  choose  to  indulge  in  this  non- 
sensical prattle  about  the  Dead  Stranger,  Fredericks  lover  shall  come 
and  the  engagement  shall  take  place.  There  ought  to  be  an  example 
set,  and  it  is  our  duty,  and  such  like.  Let  the  people  in  the  town 
see  that  we  don't  trouble  our  heads  about  any  Dead  Stranger,  that  we 
allow  our  daughter  to  be  engaged  in  spite  of  all  this  foolish  talk,  that 
Rietchen  keeps  her  head  safe,  and  nobody  twists  her  neck,  and  then 
the  neck  of  this  absurd  superstition  will  be  twisted  for  ever.  It's  no 
use  for  the  parson  to  preach  to  people  :  *  Do  right — repent — be 
religious.'    He  must  go  briskly  forward,  and  lead  the  way." 

"  But  suppose,  papa,  since  you  love  your  child  dearly — suppose 
now,  you  see,  something  very  untoward,  no  matter  exactly  what, 
must  have  taken  place  a  hundred  years  ago,  according  to  the  register ; 
and  perhaps  there  were  then  people  who  jeered  at  the  old  tradition 
— now  we  are  doing  the  same  thing  :  and  if  you  do  fix  the  ceremony 
of  betrothal  precisely  at  this  fatal  ill-omened  period,  and  if — which 
God  forbid — it  were  to  happen  that " 

"  Stop !  you  don't  mean  Frederica's  neck  twisted.  I  won't 
listen  to  such  a  diabolical  suggestion — in  mercy  forbear,  I  say." 

"  No ;  but,  for  instance,  if  Herr  von  Hahn  were  to  come  to  us 
during  these  so  much  talked  of  days,  and  in  this  dreadful  weather 
— only  reflect,  he  is  an  invalid,  as  he  writes  himself.  His  illness 
might  be  increased  by  travelling  over  bad  roads  in  such  weather. 
Suppose  we  had  a  sick — at  last,  perhaps,  a  Dead  Stranger  in  our  own 
house.  I  shudder  to  utter  the  words;  and  then  the  superstition 
attached  to  this  year's  Advent  would  be  actually  confirmed  by  your 
own  obstinacy.     My  dear,  consider  it  well." 

Herr  Bantes  seemed  very  thoughtful,  and  at  length  murmured  : — 
"  Mamma,  I  cannot  understand  how  it  is  you  always  get  notions  in 
your  head  which  never  enter  other  people's  brains.  How  is  it? 
You  ought  to  have  been  a  poet,  and  such  like.  Besides  which,  it  is 
evident  enough  to  everybody  that  you  are  regularly  possessed  with 
the  bugbear  of  the  Herbesheim  ghost.  So  you  are  all — you, 
Frederica,  even  the  captain,  notwithstanding  he's  a  soldier,  so  also 
the  cashier,  book-keeper,  and  inspector — all,  I  say,  but  no  one  likes 
to  confess  it — Pshaw  !  nonsense." 

"If  it  were  so,  which,  however,  I  much  doubt,  yet  it  would  not  be 
the  duty  of  a  prudent  father  of  a   family  to  treat  with  levity  a 

prejudice  which,  after  all,  hurts  no  one." 

x  2 

288  T/te  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

"  All  folly  is  hurtful,  therefore  no  levity — war,  open  ,war.  Ever 
since  Frederica's  birthday  every  soul  in  the  house  has  looked  as 
frightened  as  if  the  Day  of  Judgment  were  at  hand.  The  devil  him- 
self has  invented  this  story  of  the  Dead  Stranger.  It  shall  be  as 
before  said,  mamma,  no  change  shall  be  made — I  am  immovable." 

So  said  Herr  Bantes  as  he  hastened  from  the  room. 

Meanwhile,  it  was  not  exactly  as  before,  even  with  himself.  The 
conversation  had  left  its  thorn  behind  :  he  considered  that  for  the 
sake  of  domestic  peace  it  might  be  better  to  put  off  the  formal 
betrothal  till  after  Christmas.  He  loved  his  daughter  most  dearly, 
and  this  warm  affection  produced  all  sorts  of  anxious  forebodings, 
lest  someway  or  other  the  devil  should  be  at  work,  and  then  all  would 
be  ascribed  to  the  Dead  Stranger.  The  nearer  Advent  Sunday 
approached  the  more  uncomfortable  he  felt,  and  that  altogether  in 
spite  of  himself.  In  his  heart  he  wished  his  future  son-in-law  might 
delay  his  coming ;  and  he  felt  actually  terrified  when  the  weather 
completely  cleared  up  and  the  warm  beams  of  the  sun  shed  their 
cheering  influence  over  the  world,  as  though  the  last  days  of  autumn 
brought  with  them  a  return  of  summer — and  he  went  and  tapped  the 
barometer  as  assiduously  as  ever,  to  make  the  quicksilver  fall.  To 
his  astonishment,  he  remarked  that  his  wife  and  Frederica,  as 
well  as  the  commandant,  had  recovered  their  former  cheerfulness  with 
the  return  of  fine  weather,  and  that  at  length  all  his  household  had 
resumed  their  usual  tone,  and  that  he  himself  alone  could  not  feel  as 

The  mother  did  not  fail  to  remark  that  Rietchen  had  all  sorts  of 
objections  to  make  against  the  rich  banker,  and  that  the  commandant 
was  becoming,  more  than  should  be,  commandant  in  her  heart.  Her 
endeavour  now  was  to  postpone  the  formal  betrothal  of  the  banker 
with  her  daughter,  not  with  a  view  of  showing  favour  to  Waldrich, 
fond  as  she  was  of  him,  but  to  guard  against  possible  evil.  She 
wished  the  young  people  should  first  become  acquainted  with  each 
other,  and  that  Frederica  might  accustom  her  mind  to  her  destined 
lot — besides  which,  it  was  still  more  important  to  her  to  know 
whether  Herr  von  Hahn  was  really  worthy  of  Frederica's  heart.  For 
this  reason  the  judicious  matron  had  never  contradicted  her  husband's 
choice,  never  reproached  him,  although  he  had  concealed  till  the 
birthday  the  important  event  of  her  daughter's  intended  marriage. 
She  knew  Herr  Bantes  too  well.  Contradiction  would  only  make 
him  more  set  upon  the  thing ;  she  therefore  embraced  every  oppor- 
tunity of  discussion,  in  order  to  drive  the  thorn  yet  deeper  into  his 
heart,  and  rejoiced  when  she  perceived  it  was  not  without  effect. 

The  Dead  Stranger.  289 

For  this  purpose  she  had  written,  even  as  early  as  the  birthday,  to  a 
friend  in  the  capital,  to  obtain  some  information  regarding  the 
character  of  Herr  von  Hahn.  The  answer  arrived  the  same  day 
that  the  fine  weather  had  so  frightened  Herr  Bantes.  Herr  von 
Hahn  was  described  in  the  friend's  letter  as  one  of  the  best  and  most 
respectable  of  men,  who  possessed  the  esteem  and,  until  now,  the 
commiseration  of  every  one,  not  only  because  he  was  always  so 
much  of  an  invalid,  but  because  he  had  hitherto  lived  in  almost 
slavish  dependence  upon  his  old,  morose,  whimsical,  and  avaricious 
father.  For  some  weeks  past,  however,  the  young*  man  had  under- 
taken the  entire  management  of  the  old  one's  business,  and  the  latter . 
had  retired  to  an  estate  in  the  country  on  account  of  his  increasing 
age  and  consequent  debility :  he  was  deaf,  and  almost  blind,  even 
with  the  aid  of  spectacles. 

This  agreeable  intelligence  made  fine  weather  in  Madame  Bantes's 
heart,  and  the  like  cheering  effect"  was  produced  on  Fred  erica  and 
Waldrich,  though  from  a  very  different  cause. 

.  In  consequence  of  a  commission  given  him  by  Madame  Bantes, 
Waldrich  had  entered  Frederica's  room,  and  found  her  sitting  by  the 
window,  leaning  her  forehead  on  the  new  harp  which  stood 
beside  her. 

"  Miss  Bantes,"  said  he,  "  your  mamma  wishes  to  know  whether  you 
would  like  to  take  a  drive  with  us  this  fine  day." 

Rietchen  made  no  answer,  but  turned  her  face  away  towards  the 

"  Your  ladyship  is  displeased,"  said  Waldrich,  who  fancied  she  was 
pretending  to  pout.  "  Didn't  I  take  another  cup  of  chocolate  this 
morning,  against  my  own  inclinations,  simply  because  your  ladyship 
was  pleased  to  command  it  ?  or  didn't  I  come  back  from  parade 
precisely  at  the  right  time  ?  or  did  I  fail  during  dinner  to  give  a 
respectful  assent  to  something?" 

No  response  was  made.  He  was  silent  a  minute  or  two,  then  went 
to  the  door,  as  if  he  meant  to  leave,  once  more  turned,  and  said 
impatiently : — 

"  Come,  Rietchen,  it  is  glorious  weather." 

"  No,"  was  her  reply,  in  a  hollow  voice. 

He  was  startled  at  the  tone,  which  betrayed  that  the  speaker  was 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  said  he,  anxiously,  and  took  the  hand 
on  which  her  forehead  rested  from  the  harp,  obliging  her  to 
look  up. 

"  Does  mamma  intend  that  we  should  take  this  drive  to  meet  him  ? 

290  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

is  he  to  arrive  to-day  ?  has  she  said  anything  ?"  asked  Frederica, 
hastily,  and  dried  her  swollen  eyes  with  her  handkerchief. 

Waldrich's  countenance  fell.  Half  angry,  he  said,  "Oh!  Frederica, 
it  is  not  right  of  you  to  ask  such  a  question.  Do  you  think  that  I 
should  invite  you  if  I  entertained  such  a  suspicion.  Would  to  God 
he  did  not  arrive  till  I  were  far  away  !" 

"  How  far  away  ?" 

"  In  another  garrison  ;  I  wrote  to  the  general  on  your  birthday 
with  the  request,  but  as  yet  have  no  answer." 

Rietchen  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  vexation,  rose, 
and  said : — 

"  George,  do  not  be  angry  with  me,  but  that,  again,  was  foolish  of 

' "  I  neither  can,  nor  will,  nor  ought  to  stay  longer." 

"  Waldrich,  are  you  in  earnest  ?  you  will  make  me  angry  with  you 
for  life." 

"  And  do  you  want  to  kill  me  by  forcing  me  to  be  present  at  your 
wedding  ?  " 

"  You  shall  never  be  invited  to  my  wedding ;  who  told  you  I  had 
given  my  consent  ?" 

"You  dare  not  refuse  it." 

"  And  yet  nothing  shall  induce  me  to  give  it !"  sighed  the  young 
lady,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Waldrich,  too,  was  unmanned  by  his  own  secret  grief.  This  was 
the  first  time  that  they  had  touched  on  this  delicate  topic,  although 
it  was  ever  present  to  the  minds  of  both.  At  the  last  birthday,  when 
both,  for  the  first  time,  were  startled  at  the  certainty,  or  at  least  the 
possibility,  that  henceforth  there  could  never  more  be  a  con- 
tinuance of  that  unrestrained  youthful  intercourse  in  which  they  had 
hitherto  lived,  they  felt  for  the  first  time  the  nature  of  the 
affection  they  entertained  for  each  other.  They  regarded  each 
other,  since  the  three  treacherous  kisses  at  the  last  fete,  with  other 
eyes  ;  they  understood  each  other ;  they  knew  that  they  loved,  and 
were  beloved,  but  without  giving  utterance  to  their  feelings ;  in  both 
there  was  all  at  once  the  calm  and  tranquil  light  of  friendship  fanned 
into  an  ardent  flame,  and  each  tried  to  conceal  this  from  the  other, 
and  thereby  only  increased  its  secret  power. 

After  some  little  time,  Waldrich  again  approached  her,  and  said, 
in  a  tone  of  affectionate  sincerity : — 

"  Rietchen,  can  we  continue  on  the  same  terms  with  each  other  as 
heretofore  ?" 

"  Waldrich,  can  we  then  be  different  towards  each  other  than  we  have 
hitherto  been  ?" 

The  Dead  Stranger.  29 1 

"  Can  I — impossible — ah  !  Rietchen,  I  have  never  known  my  own 
happiness ;  now  only,  when  I  am  on  the  point  of  losing  you,  I  feel 
that  I  am  lost." 

"  Lost !  George,  do  not  say  that ;  do  not  make  me  unhappy.  Da 
not  repeat  that  dreadful  word." 

"  But  when  he  comes  ! " 

"  God  will  provide  ! — there,  take  my  hand  :  ten  thousand  times 
rather  would  I  become  the  bride  of  the  Dead  Stranger,  But  do  not 
repeat  that  to  papa  and  mamma.  I  will  tell  them  when  the  time 
comes.  Take  my  hand  with  this  assurance,  and  be  easy  as 
regards  me." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  covered  it  with  the  warmest  kisses. 

"  It  is  a  promise  of  life,  Frederica,"  said  Waldrich.  "  I  scarce  ven- 
tured to  expect  it,  but  I  accept  it;  if  you  break  it  you  break 
my  heart." 

"  And  you  are  now  once  more  happy  and  cheerful  ?" 

"  Ah !  I  was  never  so  entirely  so  as  at  this  moment,"  cried  he. 

"  Away !"  said  Frederica.  "  Mamma  will  expect  you  :  away ;  I  will 
dress  myself  and  accompany  you  in  this  drive." 

She  urged  him  to  leave  her,  but  at  the  door  permitted  one  farewell 
kiss.  He  went,  greatly  agitated,  and  communicated  to  Madame 
Bantes  her  daughter's  assent  But  Frederica  herself  sank  in  perfect 
unconsciousness  on  a  couch,  wrapt  in  her  dream  of  bliss,  and  forgot 
the  drive.  The  carriage  waited  on.  Madame  Bantes  came  at  length 
herself  to  fetch  her  daughter.  She  found  her  in  a  reverie,  her  head 
sunk  on  her  bosom,  half  veiled  by  her  light  brown  ringlets,  her 
clasped  hands  lying  on  her  knees. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?  or  are  you  praying?"  asked  the 

"  I  have  spoken  with  God." 

"  Are  you  well?" 

"  More  than  well." 

"  Be  serious,  Rietchen ;  you  appear  to  have  been  crying." 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  crying ;  but  I  am  happy  now,  mamma.  Let  us 
go.     I  have  only  my  bonnet  to  put  on." 

She  took  her  bonnet  and  placed  herself  before  the  looking-glass, 
under  which  was  the  pink  ribbon  with  which  Waldrich  had  ornamented 
the  birthday  harp.  She  took  it,  and  tied  it  round  her  waist  Madame 
Bantes  said  nothing,  but  she  resolved  never  again  to  give  the 
commandant  a  commission  for  her  daughter. 

(To  be  continued. J 

The  Waterloo  Cup. 

[HAT  betting  men  and  bookmakers  would  do  during 
the  dreary  winter  months  without  such  "  a  medium 
for  speculation/'  as  it  has  been  termed,  as  the 
Waterloo  Cup,  it  is  hard  to  say.  Until  the  publica- 
tion of  the  weights  and  acceptances  for  the  Spring  handicaps,  there 
is  almost  a  cessation  of  business  among  that  astute  fraternity — except 
in  an  occasional  "  bonneting "  of  a  winter  favourite  for  the  Two 
Thousand  or  the  Derby — in  consequence  of  the  increasing  difficulty 
in  finding  a  wealthy  "  flat "  so  credulous  and  so  confiding  in  turf 
prophecy  as  to  lay  out  his  money  after  so  many  sad  cases  of  warning, 
and  in  the  face  of  the  proposed  measures  of  Mr.  Douglas  Straight 
and  Mr.  Thomas  Hughes.  The  Waterloo  Cup  as  early  as  October 
becomes  the  general  theme  of  conversation  in  that  highly  aristocratic 
society  known  and  printed  as  "  betting  circles,"  and  the  names  Of 
the  holders  of  nominations  become  "  familiar  as  household  words " 
in  the  mouths  of  men  and  boys  given  to  betting,  from  "lordly  hall  to 
peasant  hut."  Immediately  on  the  publication  of  the  betting  lists 
from  Tattersall's,  which  every  newspaper  that  aspires  to  any  position 
devoutly  copies  and  aids  in  disseminating  through  the  land,  invest- 
ments are  made,  and  the  smallest  particulars  concerning  the  "doings 
of  the  cracks  "  devoured  with  the  greediest  voracity.  Hoodwinking, 
in  the  matter  of  predicting  certain  greyhounds  as  being  about  to 
run  under  different  nominations,  then  becomes  a  legitimate  method 
of  making  money,  and  the  great  endeavour  of  everybody  is  to 
discover  under  what  particular  nominations  the  best  greyhounds 
are  to  compete.  This  attempt  to  ascertain  what  greyhound  each 
nominator  will  nin  has  always  been,  and  always  must  be,  attended 
with  the  greatest  difficulty.  Sickness  breaks  out  suddenly  in  some 
kennels,  in  others  all  kinds  of  accidents  to  which  canine  nature  is 
liable  occur ;  and  sometimes  gentlemen,  after  a  trial  of  the  strength 
of  their  stud,  find  that  they  are  not  in  sufficient  "  form,"  and  are 
compelled  at  the  eleventh  hour  to  cast  about  for  a  friend  to  lend  them 
a  greyhound  for  representation  in  the  great  event.  In  the  "  Cup  n 
of  this  year  there  have  been  many  instances  of  this  kind  of  thing, 
and  all  sorts  of  predictions,  prophecies,  and  probabilities  have  arisen 
in  consequence — some  specious,  some  absurd,  and  most  fallacious. 

The  Waterloo  Cup.  293 

The  increasing  amount  of  betting  in  connection  with  the  Waterloo- 
Cup  is  not  a  healthy  sign  for  coursing,  and  it  gives  a  fresh  induce- 
ment to  our  speculative  youth  to  seek  royal  roads  to  fortune  instead 
of  following  an  honest  calling.  Many  a  London  and  other  youth, 
as  Kingsley  sings,  might  valiantly  declare : — 

Nor  I  wadna  be  a  clerk,  mither,  to  bide  aye  ben, 
Scrabbling  ower  the  sheets  o'  parchment  with  a  weary,  weary  pen  ; 
Looking  through  the  lang  stane  window  at  a  narrow  strip  o*  sky, 
Like  a  laverock  in  a  withy  cage,  until  I  pine  away  and  die. 

It  is  true  that  the  imaginary  utterer  of  this  stanza  was  not  pining  to 
become  a  member  of  the  cognoscenti,  but  was  only  wishing  to  neglect 
every  sort  of  occupation  and  pursuit  usually  adopted  by  civilised 
men,  and  to  become  a  mere  outlaw :  but  the  moral  is  the  same^ 
though  the  outlaw  has  undoubtedly  a  considerable  advantage  over 
the  ambitious  youth  of  the  other  sort;  who  would  make  gain  his  only 

The  Waterloo  Cup  appears  to  be  an  unwholesome  excrescence  of 
the  Altcar  Club,  and  from  having  been  originally  a  thirty-two  dog 
stake  has  been  increased  of  late  years  to  one  of  sixty-four.  This,  no 
doubt,  has  considerably  enhanced  the  zest  and  interest  felt  in  the 
contest,  and  perhaps,  also,  has  improved  the  breeding  of  the  grey- 
hound ;  but  it  has  unquestionably  fostered  an  increase  of  the  betting 
propensity,  and  succeeds  in  drawing  together  an  assemblage  of  low 
class  bookmakers  such  as  are  to  be  seen  nowhere  else,  except,, 
perhaps,  at  a  "leather-flapping"  suburban  steeplechase  meeting. 
The  ground  is  of  a  most  peculiar  kind,  the  land  having  undergone 
drainage  to  a  most  extensive  amount,  a  proceeding  which,  as 
"  Stonehenge  "  remarks  in  his  book  on  the  greyhound — a  book  whose 
reappearance  this  Christmas  ought  to  be  a  source  of  satisfaction  to 
all  who  take  an  interest  in  coursing  in  any  country — "  has  made  the 
hares  of  this  district  more  sound  than  it  was  formerly  (sic),  when 
a  run  up,  a  wrench  or  two,  and  a  kill  formed  the  average  Lancashire 
course,  and  when  a  tremendously  long  slip  was  essential  to  produce 
a  tolerable  trial." 

Of  this  ground  in  its  pristine  form  we  gather  from  Blaine  that  "  the 
Altcar  meadows  differ  from  the  give  and  take  country  of  the  Berk- 
shire and  Wiltshire  downs  and  Lincolnshire  wolds,  and  from  the 
ascending  sweep  of  Newmarket  Heath,  in  being  a  flat,  intersected  by 
large  ditches,  into  which  strange  dogs  are  apt  to  plunge,  and  yield 
an  easy  victory  to  those  of  the  district.  A  steam  engine  pumps  a 
great  portion  of  the  water  up  into  the  river,  which  bears  it  to  the 

294  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

adjoining  sea.  The  meadows  are  thus  rendered  dry  enough  for  the 
judge  to  ride ;  and  the  spectators  enjoy  the  sport  either  from  the 
embankment  along  the  river,  or  on  the  plain  itself.  The  drenching 
which  strangers  frequently  encounter  in  their  attempts  to  leap  the 
ditches  causes  many  an  uproarious  laugh/'  Lord  Sefton  is  a  successful 
courser,  and  himself  "  manages  the  field."  The  intersection  of  the 
ground  by  such  innumerable  "soughs,"  caused  by  the  increased 
drainage,  renders  the  coursing  most  difficult  for  greyhounds  unaccus- 
tomed to  its  peculiarities,  and  the  remark  has  often  been  made  that 
it  is  a  misfortune  that  so  large  a  stake  and  so  great  a  prize — nothing 
less,  in  fact,  than  what  coursers  delight  to  term  "  The  Blue  Riband 
of  the  Leash " — should  be  contended  for  over  such  a  country.  Its 
proximity  to  Liverpool,  being  only  twelve  miles  distant  from  that 
important  town,  and  its  convenience  for  Irish  and  Scotch  coursers! 
to  say  nothing  of  the  liberality  of  Lord  Sefton,  will,  however,  in  all 
probability  always  give  it  a  commanding  preference  as  the  head 
quarters  of  coursing. 

Very  little  riding  is  required  on  the  part  of  the  judge,  necessary  as 
it  is  at  other  places,  but  he  frequently  experiences  great  difficulty  in 
the  discharge  of  his  duties  from  being  obstructed  by  the  crowd.  The 
Earl  of  Sefton  cannot  be  expected  always  to  be  present,  though  he 
keeps  up  the  custom  of  his  ancestor  in  attending  the  coursing 
whenever  he  can,  and  when  his  lordship  is  not  on  the  ground  a 
Liverpudlian  gang  of  bookmakers  and  backers  of  "  individual  courses  " 
is  frequently  quite  uncontrollable.  Still,  considering  what  a  mass  of 
people  congregate  on  the  occasion,  there  is  perhaps  not  much  to  be 
•complained  of  in  the  matter  of  general  good  order.  Much  allowance 
is  to  be  made  for  excited  Lancashire  under  the  influence  of  a  fine 
opportunity  for  making  money  at  a  quick  and  congenial  rate ;  and  if 
its  coursing  votaries  do  occasionally  forget  sport  and  fair  play  in  the 
interest  of  trade,  there  is  nothing  in  that  different  from  the  conduct 
of  other  people  under  similar  trying  circumstances. 

It  is  most  essential  that  the  judge  over  such  a  difficult  ground,  and 
amid  so  much  surrounding  excitement,  should  be  a  very  experienced 
one,  and  the  Committee  did  wisely  in  selecting  Mr.  Warwick  for  the 
thirteenth  consecutive  time  to  preside  over  this  meeting.  The 
Scotchmen  were  anxious  for  the  appointment  of  Mr.  Hedley  to  the 
post,  but  it  is  extremely  doubtful  if  he  or  any  other  judge  than  Mr. 
Warwick  could  have  given  general  satisfaction  to  so  heterogeneous  an 
assemblage.  The  crowd  sometimes  grow  so  enthusiastic  that  it  might 
be  fancied  they  think  that  one  of  the  late  Duke  of  Norfolk's  cours- 
ing rules  is  still  in  vogue  :   "  He  that  comes  in  first  to  the  death  of 

The  Waterloo  Cup.  295 

the  hare,  takes  her  up,  and  saves  her  from  breaking,  cherishes  the 
dogs,  and  cleanseth  their  mouths  from  the  wool,  is  adjudged  to  have 
the  hare  for  his  pains."  The  Three  Counties  Union  Club  some  years 
ago  expressed  a  desire  to  have  the  "cote"  inscribed  among  the  cours- 
ing rules  and  its  proper  value  allowed.  Lord  Lurgan  disposed  of 
this  request  by  saying  that  he  must  confess  that,  although  he  had 
now  been  a  courser  for  some  years,  he  was  bound  to  make  an  admis- 
sion of  ignorance  with  regard  to  the  word  "  cote."  He  was  very 
much  obliged  to  Mr.  Edleston  for  his  able  explanation ;  but,  how- 
ever, he  did  not  see  any  occasion  for  an  unnecessary  alteration. 
The  "  cote,"  however,  was  once  well  understood  in  coursing,  and  in 
the  Duke  of  Norfolk's  rules  we  find  that  it  is  "when  a  greyhound  goeth 
endways  by  his  fellow  and  gives  the  hare  a  turn."  A  "  cote  "  in 
those  glorious  days  served  for  two  turns,  but  it  is  well  that  those  rules 
have  been  discarded,  and  a  more  intelligible  order  of  regulations 
substituted,  or  goodness  only  knows  what  a  rumpus  would  be  created 
in  the  case  of  an  undecided  course,  for  no  owner  of  a  greyhound  was 
ever  known  to  acknowledge  that  his  dog  had  been  fairly  beaten  on 
his  merits.  This,  perhaps,  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  and  it  is 
questionable  if  any  judge,  however  competent  and  experienced,  is 
capable  of  accurately  judging  every  course,  single-handed,  throughout  a 
long  day.  But  it  is  a  comfort  to  think  that,  according  to  high  authority, 
"  with  a  judge  who  acts  decisively,  a  dispute  is  set  at  rest  so  far  as 
the  general  proceedings  are  concerned ;  and  the  murmurs  of  the  dis- 
contented, being  disregarded,  soon  subside."  It  must  not  be  for- 
gotten that  "the  many  fortuitous  circumstances  there  are  in  a  course, 
the  difference  in  the  situation  from  which  different  persons  view  it, 
and  the  perpetual  variation  of  the  direction  in  which  the  dogs  are 
running,  tend  to  mislead ;  and  though  last,  not  least,  we  have  such  a 
variety  of  opinions  on  what  principles  or  points  courses  ought  to  be 
decided,  that  the  necessity  for  the  rules  and  principles  on  which  they 
are  founded,  being  generally  established  and  uniformly  recognised,  is 
totally  and  unquestionably  indispensable." 

The  slipper's  duties  are  hardly  less  responsible  and  arduous  than 
those  of  the  judge,  and  at  Altcar  they  may  be  said  to  be  even  more 
so.  Lord  Sefton  preserves  so  successfully  that  when  the  numbers  of 
people  who  come  to  witness  the  coursing  approach  the  ground  from 

all  quarters, 

The  merry  brown  hares  come  leaping 

Over  the  crest  of  the  hill 

in  such  disagreeable  companies  that  it  is  very  often  difficult  to 
slip  a  couple  of  greyhounds  at  a  single  hare.     James  Kerss  gave 

296  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

such  general  satisfaction  last  year  that  he  was  again  appointed  as 
slipper  for  the  present.  It  may  be  remarked  here  that  the  term 
"  slipper,"  though  it  cannot  need  any  etymological  definition,  is  a 
word  of  comparatively  modern  date,  and  we  ought  to  be  cautious 
in  allowing  barbarisms  to  be  incorporated  with  coursing  literature. 
Our  coursers  have  already  frequently  rendered  themselves  ridiculous 
by  their  curious  sponsorial  nomenclature,  and  there  is  an  instance  or 
two  in  the  case  of  the  present  Waterloo  Cup.  There  was  no  such  per- 
sonage as  a  "  slipper" — what  a  peculiarly  unsporting  sound  it  has  ! — 
in  the  early  days  of  coursing,  when  Queen  Bess,  of  glorious  memory,, 
was  on  the  throne.  In  those  times  "  it  was  ordered  that  he  which 
was  chosen  fewterer,  or  letter-loose  of  the  greyhounds,  shall  receive 
the  greyhounds  which  are  matched  to  run  together  in  his  leash," 
and  perform  the  other  duties  pretty  much  upon  the  present  plan. 

It  is  not  probable  that  we  shall  see  such  greyhounds  as  Cerito 
and  Master  M'Grath — both  three  times  winners  of  the  Waterloo 
Cup — contending  over  the  plains  of  Altcar  again ;  and  this  year 
much  of  the  interest  usually  aroused  among  men  who  course  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  sport,  and  who  are  not  entirely  given  to  making 
money  or  to  losing  it,  was  destroyed  by  the  early  collapse  of  several 
favourites,  and  by  many  eccentricities  on  the  part  of  some  nomina- 
nators  and  of  some  clubs. 

Mr.  Mould  was  first  in  request  at  Tattersall's  on  the  opening  of  the 
new  year,  from  the  fact  that  he  had  been  in  treaty  for  the  possession 
of  Peasant  Boy,  the  runner-up  of  last  year,  to  represent  his  nomina- 
tion. Mr.  Assheton  Smith,  however,  allowed  the  dog.  to  represent 
Mr.  Blackstock,  but  the  arrangement  was  not  made  known  until 
after  the  Carnarvon  meeting,  when  that  gentleman  immediately 
headed  the  betting,  and  continued  in  the  pride  of  place  up  to  the 
close.  Peasant  Boy  is  by  Racing  Hopfactor,  out  of  Placid,  and 
from  the  reports  heard  about  him  was  well  entitled  to  the  confidence 
so  eagerly  bestowed  upon  him.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Colman  had  been 
unfortunate  in  losing  Cacique,  who  had  done  wonders  at  Newmarket, 
and  had  even  beaten  Amethyst,  Mr.  Salter's  nomination,  for  which 
animal  Mr.  Salter  had  given  no  less  than  one  hundred  and  thirty 
guineas  at  a  sale  at  Aldridge's.  Mr.  Haywood,  always  formidable, 
had  from  accidents  been  obliged  to  fall  back  on  Rhubarb,  a  respect- 
able animal,  but  hardly  up  to  Altcar  form,  and  who  slipped  up 
in  the  frost  early  in  February.  Lords  Lurgan  and  Sefton,  with 
Lady  Thriftless  and  Satire,  were  always  highly  dangerous,  and 
Mr.  M'Haffie,  with  Wandering  Willie,  from  the  north,  almost  ranked 
on  a  par  with  Mr.  Blackstock. 

The  Waterloo  Cup.  297 

Mr.  Lister,  since  Chloe's  winning  the  Cup  twice,  has  always  been 
regarded  with  dread  by  other  competitors,  with  whatever  he  runs,  and 
after  the  form  of  his  kennel  shown  by  the  performance  of  Croesus — 
by  Cashier  out  of  Chloe — at  the  late  Altcar  Club  Meeting,  his  chance 
was  thought  good.  But  it  should  have  been  remembered  that  Mr. 
Briggs's  Blackburn  would  probably  have  won  the  stake  but  for  his 
sad  accident,  unless  that  honour  had  been  reserved  for  old  Bed  of 
Stone — the  winner  of  last  year — who  was  put  out  in  an  unfortunate 
trial  with  Chameleon.  Notwithstanding  the  victory  of  Croesus,  Mr. 
Briggs  looked  as  formidable  as  any  nominator  in  the  stake,  for  old 
Bed  of  Stone  had  performed  over  the  soughs  in  her  accustomed  style. 

The  nomination  of  Sir  Capel  Molyneux  having  fallen  vacant,  it  was 
conferred  upon  Mr.  Dunne,  an  English  gentleman,  and  the  nomination 
being  an  Irish  one,  the  transaction  caused  great  annoyance  to  Lord 
Lurgan  and  the  Irish  coursers  in  general,  which  is  not  greatly  to  be 
wondered  at,  for  it  looks  like  a  manifest  piece  of  injustice.  A  sort  of 
indignation  meeting,  at  which  Ix>rd  Lurgan  presided,  was  held  in 
Ireland  on  the  subject,  and  some  correspondence  passed  between  his 
lordship  and  the  Earl  of  Sefton.  Some  little  misunderstandings  and 
anomalies  of  this  kind  are  not  uncharacteristic  of  proceedings  in  con- 
nection with  the  Waterloo  Cup,  but  the  expostulation  of  the  Irish 
gentlemen  on  this  occasion  will  probably  not  have  been  made  without 
producing  an  amended  state  of  management  for  the  future. 

The  Earl  of  Sefton,  upon  a  representation  being  made  to  him  of 
the  grievance  which  the  Irish  considered  they  suffered  in  this  disposal 
of  Sir  Capel  Molyneux's  nomination  to  an  Englishman,  forthwith 
wrote  to  Lord  Lurgan  expressing  his  regret  that  any  dissatisfaction 
had  been  caused,  saying : — "  I  have  read  the  resolutions  passed  at  the 
meeting  of  coursers  in  Ireland,  and  can  only  assure  you  that  any 
recommendations  coming  from  them  as  to  the  future  system  of  dis- 
tributing Waterloo  nominations  in  Ireland  shall  be  carefully  con- 
sidered by  your  Committee.  No  one  appreciates  more  than  I  do  the 
very  great  assistance  which  you  have  always  rendered  to  that  Com- 
mittee in  their  difficult  task  of  assigning  the  sixty-four  nominations, 
and  I  trust  that  we  may  long  count  upon  your  services  as  a  member 
of  the  same." 

The  amende  honorable  having  been  thus  made,  Lord  Lurgan,  it  is 
almost  unnecessary  to  remark,  immediately  wrote  to  his  friend  to  say 
that  he  was  sorry  to  have  been  compelled  to  protest  against  the  deci- 
sion come  to  by  a  Committee  with  whom  he  had  worked  most 
cordially.  He  thought  that  if  he  could  have  been  present  at  the  Altcar 
Club  Meeting  a  decision  might  have  been  arrived  at  that  would  have 

298  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

been  satisfactory  to  all.  This  statement  must  not  be  regarded  as  self- 
praise  on  his  lordship's  part,  as  being  a  superior  legislator  to  the 
other  members  of  the  Committee,  but  as  an  opinion  only  that  as  the 
chosen  representative  of  the  Irish  coursers  he  might  have  been  able 
to  satisfy  them  by  having  attended  to  their  interests.  We  know  from 
experience  of  proceedings  in  Parliament  and  elsewhere  that  loyal 
Irishmen — and  especially  loyal  Irish  gentlemen,  who,  when  they  are 
worthy  of  that  epithet,  are  second  to  no  other  gentlemen  in  the 
world — are  easily  appeased  when  what  they  imagine — they  are 
wonderfully  imaginative — to  be  a  grievance  has  been  properly  repre- 
sented and  argued.  "  However,"  says  Lord  Lurgan,  "what  has  now 
been  done  is  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  we  must  turn  our  attention  to 
the  future ;  and  in  accordance  with  the  wishes  you  express  in  so  very 
kind  a  manner,  I  shall  gladly  continue  to  serve  on  your  Waterloo 
Cup  Committee,  and  do  all  in  my  power  to  promote  the  general 
interests  of  coursing." 

What  a  pity  it  is  that  all  Irish  difficulties  could  not  be  similarly 
comfortably  settled  !  If  we  could  only  submit  matters  of  dispute  and 
difference  which  at  present  distract  us,  and  cause  our  legislators  to 
sport  "  vagrant  rhetoric "  in  the  vacation  and  talk  nonsense  in  the 
Houses  in  the  Session,  to  the  "  arbitration "  of  Lords  Sefton  and 
Lurgan — with  the  assistance  perhaps  of  Lord  Selborne  and  Lord 
Chief  Justice  Cockburn — we  should  very  soon  arrive  at  a  settlement 
of  all  questions  between  England  and  the  "  Emerald  Isle." 

It  is  a  matter  of  the  utmost  unimportance — or  at  least  it  should  be 
— to  gentlemen  what  dog  is  declared  the  winner  of  the  Waterloo 
Cup,  if  the  best  greyhounds  in  the  country  are  not  allowed,  or  cannot 
be  procured  to  start  for  it.  Descriptions  of  the  running  and  the 
name  of  the  winner  can  now  be  had  for  a  penny,  and  whether  they 
are,  or  can  be,  accurate  or  not  it  is  not  worth  while  to  inquire  here. 
It  is  sufficient  for  all  purposes,  except  that  of  betting,  to  have  endea- 
voured to  show  what  is  meant  by  coursing  for  the  Waterloo  Cup,  and 
to  have  explained  some  of  its  recommendations  and  anomalies,  and 
several  of  its  deserts  of  disfavour. 


'^•X^V'V^X/  V  V>^>  V 


T  was  on  the  25th  of  October  of  last  year,  while  we  were 
listening  at  the  open  grave  of  The'ophile  Gautier  to  the  sharp 
vibrations  of  the  voice  in  which  the  younger  Dumas  was 
recounting  the  claims  of  "  the  great  Theo."  upon  the  love 
and  gratitude  of  all  who  valued  letters  and  the  arts,  and  his  forty  years 
of  labours ;  that  I  turned  to  Dord,  and  thought  how  hardly  he  had 
been  used  by  critics,  who  had  thanked  him  for  his  prodigious  capacity 
for  work,  by  describing  him  to  the  world  as  an  artist  a  la  minute.  I 
found  him  one  day  over  the  fourth  plate  of  his  Neophyte,  the  three, 
already  far  advanced,  having  been  put  away  because  in  some  of  the 
fine  work  they  did  not  satisfy  his  fastidious  conscientiousness.  He 
glanced  up  at  me  from  his  copper,  and  said  quietly,  answering  my 
look  of  surprise,  "  I  have  the  patience  of  the  ox,  you  see — as  I  have 
often  told  you." 

Yea,  it  is  the  patience  of  the  ox,  for  ever  fed  by  an  imagination  of 
the  most  fertile  power  and  the  most  extraordinary  impulsiveness  :  an 
imagination  that  has  been  directed  by  study  in  the  company  of 
Dante  and  Milton,  and  by  the  inspiration  of  the  Bible :  that  has 
revelled  in  the  joyeusctes  of  Rabelais  and  the  "Contes  Drolatiques  :" 
that  has  caught  warmth  from  Don  Quixote  and  from  travels  in  his 
glowing  land :  and  that  has  travelled  with  the  Wandering  Jew  and 
lived  in  fable  and  legend,  in  history  and  poesy,  through  more  than 
twenty  years  of  working  days.  The  unthinking  world  and  the  careless 
critic  look  upon  the  marvellous  accumulation  of  the  poet's  dreams, 
and  fancies,  which  he  has  cast  upon  paper  or  wrought  in  colour ;  as 
evidence  of  the  fleetness  of  his  hand,  and  not  of  his  valiant,  patient 
spirit,  that  dwells  in  art  for  ever  through  all  its  waking  hours.  The 
page  to  which  Dore  has  given  a  week's  thought,  and  upon  which  he  was 
working  when  the  critic  was  in  bed,  is  described  as  another  example 
of  the  rapidity — and  therefore  the  carelessness — with  which  the  artist 
tosses  off  a  poem,  or  embodies  a  legend.  A  caricaturist  has  had  the 
audacity  to  draw  the  illustrator  of  Dante  with  pencils  in  both  hands 
and  between  the  toes  of  both  feet — ignorant  of  the  necessity  under 
which  a  fervid  and  incessantly  creative  imagination  like  Gustave 
Dora's,  exists. 

I  repeat,  Dore*  cannot  get  out  of  his  art.     He  is  almost  incapable 

300  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

<of  relaxation.  While  you  sit  at  table  with  him,  you  note  the  sudden 
pauses  in  the  conversation,  in  which  his  eyes  wander  from  the  com- 
pany to  his  land  of  dreams.  On  the  instant  he  is  away  from  you,  and 
his  face  wears  an  expression  of  dreamy  sadness,  at  which  a  stranger 
will  start,  but  that  is  familiar  to  his  friends,  who  humour  him  back  to 
them  with  a  laugh.  His  Rabelais,  his  "  Contes  Drolatiques,"  and 
his  Don  Quixote,  proclaim  that  he  has  humour.  It  is  of  a  grim 
kind  often,  in  his  work,  as  the  reader  may  see  in  the  splendid  new 
edition  of  his  Rabelais,  just  published  by  Garniers  Brothers.  Bat 
it  is  boisterous,  free,  and  sometimes  fine  and  delicate ;  as  his  admirers 
can  testify  who  remember  his  albums  and  his  contributions  to  the 
Journal  pour  Eire.  In  the  new  Rabelais — a  noble  production, 
rich  in  the  various  qualities  necessary  to  the  illustrator  of  the  great 
railleur  of  the  middle  ages — we  find,  in  conjunction  with  the  young  work 
of  the  artist  (1854) — rough,  but  brilliant  and  joyous,  laughing  with 
the  laughing  text — the  finer  pencilling  and  the  richer  brain  of  his 
maturity.  The  two  superb  volumes,  in  which  all  that  Dore*  has  to 
say  with  his  pencil  on  Frangois  Rabelais  is  set  out  richly  by  printer 
and  binder ;  comprehend  examples  of  the  ranges  of  observation,  the 
circles  of  dreams,  and  the  styles  and  effects  that  are  to  be  found 
in  his  extraordinary  work  as  an  illustrator.  Rabelais  is  nearer,  in 
general  quality,  to  the  "  Contes  Drolatiques "  than  any  of  Dore*  s 
other  works ;  but  it  is  superior  to  the  Balzac  inteq^retations  in  this, 
that  it  contains  samples  of  the  artist's  highest  work,  as  the  ark  in 
the  origin  of  Pantagruel,  in  Pantagruel  defying  the  three  hundred 
giants ;  or,  again,  Pantagruel's  entry  into  Paris  ;  or,  in  short,  a  score 
of  examples  I  might  cite  from  "Gargantua."  Rabelais  and  Don 
Quixote  I  should  instance  as  the  fields  in  which  the  artist  has 
delighted  most,  as  Dante  and  the  Bible  are  the  stores  on  which  the 
highest  force  in  him  has  been  lavishly  expended — never  in  haste,  as 
1  am  able  to  testify.  Before  the  pencil  approached  either  of  these 
labours,  the  artist's  mind  had  travelled  again  and  again  over  die  pages; 
his  imagination  had  dwelt  upon  every  line,  he  had  talked  and  thought 
about  his  theme  in  his  walks  and  among  his  intimates.  Patiently  and 
incessantly  the  work  coming  in  hand — the  work  next  to  be  done — 
is  investigated,  parcelled  out,  put  together,  and  pulled  to  pieces. 
There  is  not  the  least  sign  of  haste,  but  there  is  labour  without  inter- 
mission, which,  to  the  sluggish  worker,  produces  a  quantity  that 
proves  haste.  I  have  known  many  artists,  many  men  of  letters,  many 
scientific  men,  and  many  wonder-workers  in  the  material  world ;  but 
in  none  of  them  have  I  seen  that  capacity  for  continuous  effort,  and 
that  impossibility  of  getting  clear  of  the  toil  of  production,  which 

Gustave  Dor 6  at  Work.  30 1 

J)ore  possesses.  He  will  never  escape  the  charge  of  haste,  because 
.he  will  never  slacken  to  the  average  hours  of  production.  His  entire 
heart  and  being  Hie  within  the  walls  of  his  studio.  It  is  a  place  of 
prodigious  proportions.  Every  trowel-full  of  it  has  come  out  of  his 
.brain-pan,  and  his  ardent  and  intrepid  spirit  fills  it  to  the  rafters,  and 
turns  to  account  every  ray  of  light  that  pours  through  his  windows. 
The  student  of  Gustave  Dore  must  understand  his  thoroughness  and 
^vehemence  as  a  creator,  and  be  able  to  count  the  hours  he  spends  in 
giving  shape  to  his  creations  ;  before  he  can  estimate  the  artist's  con- 
scientiousness and,  I  will  say,  his  religious  care  to  do  his  utmost, 
-even  on  a  tail-piece  to  an  appendix. 

As  his  fellow  traveller  through  the  light  and  shade  of  London 
during  two  or  three  seasons,  I  had  many  fresh  opportunities  of  watching 
the  manner  in  which  Dore  approaches  a  great  subject.  The  idea  of 
it  germinates  slowly  in  his  mind.  We  dwelt  on  London,  and  the 
-ways  in  which  it  should  be  grasped,  many  mornings  over  the  break- 
fast table ;  and  through  the  hours  of  many  excursions  by  land  and 
water.  Before  any  plan  of  pilgrimage  had  been  settled,  Dore  had  a 
score  of  note-books  full  of  suggestive  bits,  and  had  made  a  gigantic 
.album  full  of  finished  groups  and  scenes ;  while  I  had  filled  quires 
of  paper.  Petit  a  petit  /'o/seau  fait  son  nid.  We  picked  up  straws, 
feathers,  pebbles,  clay,  and  bit  by  bit  made  the  nest.  You  wonder 
how  the  swallows  build  the  solid  cups  they  fix  under  your  eaves. 
These  appear  to  have  come  by  enchantment  when  for  the  first  time 
you  notice  wings  fluttering  above  your  windows.  But  the  birds  have 
been  at  work  with  every  peep  of  day — have  never  paused  nor 

It  is  in  the  Dore'  Gallery,  however,  rather  than  in  the  illustrated 
Avorks — marvellous  as  these  are — of  the  artist,  that  his  untiring  power 
is  most  strikingly  manifested  ;  at  the  same  time  it  is  here  that  he  has 
been  most  grievously  misunderstood.  Half  the  critics  have  begun 
by  expressing  their  astonishment  at  the  rapidity  of  the  painter ;  and 
then  they  have  gone  on  to  remark  that  it  is  a  pity  he  does  not  give 
more  time  to  his  pictures.  This  shows  marks  of  haste ;  that  is 
crude,  thin,  and  in  parts  scarcely  half  developed;  the  other  is  a 
mere  sketch.  But  here  is  the  product  of  twenty  years  :  for  in  all 
his  life  Dore'  has  covered  only  fifty-three  canvasses  ! 

No  wonder  that  men  stand  astonished,  confounded  by  the  pro- 
digious labours  gathered  under  the  fire  of  one  man's  genius  into 
a  gallery,  and  filling  it.  No  wonder,  again,  that  these  should 
come  into  the  gallery  jealous,  carping,  poor  artists  turned  critics, 
crying  "Rubbish!''  A  writer  in  no  less  a  journal  than  the  Athcnceum 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  y 


02  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

observed,  as  the  result  of  his  visit,  speaking  of  the  Neophyte — 
"This  picture  will  stand  M.  Dore*  in  good  stead;  the  rest  is 
trashy  Then  this  writer  turned  to  the  portrait  of  Rossini  after 
death  : — 

As  to  the  much  bepraised  post  mortem  portrait  of  Rossini,  we  confess  to  sicken- 
ing at  it.  One  does  not  slap  one's  breast  over  the  body  of  one's  dead  friend* 
then  paint  his  likeness,  and  show  it  for  a  shilling.  Irreverent  of  the  dignity  or 
death,  if  one  did  so  deeply  sin  against  love,  it  would  be  in  a  very  different  way 
from  this— not  by  propping  the  poor  corpse  on  pillows,  neatly  parting  its  hair, 
ordering  its  hands,  putting  a  crucifix  above  the  lately-beating  heart,  closing  the 
eyes,  and  painting  it,  not  well,  with  all  sentimental  accessories.  Had  the  painter's 
art  carried  us  beyond  this  travesty  of  sorrow,  an  old  master's  example  might  have 
been  pleaded,  but  the  things  differ  not  less  in  heart  than  in  pathos.  The  master 
who  did  a  thing  not  unlike  in  subject  to  this  was  a  master,  and  did  not  display  his 
work  with  the  advantages  of  an  "exhibition  light."  This  is  one  of  those  things 
which  they  do  not  do  better  in  France  than  in  England. 

That  it  has  been  much  "  bepraised "  seemed  to  turn  what  spare 
allowance  of  milk  of  human  kindness  the  critic  might  carry  with  himr 
at  once.     The  delicacy  with  which  the  great   artist  dwelt  on  the 
subject,  and  shrank  from  the  exhibition  of  it,    is   known    to   all 
who  have  had  the  slightest  personal  contact  with  him.     It  is  the 
unenviable  privilege  of  coarse  natures  to  wound  all  those  who  are  of 
finer  metal  whom  they  touch.     The  reader  is  besought  to  dwell  on 
the  astonishing  lowness  of  the  following  sentence : — "  One  does  not 
slap  one's  breast  over  the  body  of  one's  dead  friend,  then  paint  his- 
likeness,  and  show  it  for  a  shilling. *'    The  charge  implied  in  this  is 
unjustifiable,  because  it  is  one  that  the  individual  who  will  feel  it 
most  acutely,  must  disdain  to  answer.      Among    gentlemen  there 
could  not  possibly  be  two  opinions  as  to  its  taste  ;  among  men  of 
heart  there  could  not  possibly  be  two  opinions  as  to  the  unwarrant- 
able nature  of  the  imputation. 

Mark  again  the  clodhopper  hand,  when  the  description  is  intended 
to  be  strong.  "  Neatly  parting  "  the  hair  of  Rossini !  The  ignorance 
implied  in  this  passage  is  condemnation  enough.  "  Ordering  its 
hands,  putting  a  crucifix  upon  the  lately-beating  heart ! "  Has  the 
writer  yet  to  learn  that  the  crucifix  is  put  upon  every  lately-beating 
heart,  and  that  the  seemly  disposition  of  the  hands  is  the  attitude 
with  which  all  who  have  stood  in  chambers  of  death,  in  the  country 
where  Rossini  died,  are  familiar  ? 

Was  not  the  disposition  of  the  body  of  the  Emperor  in  the 
Graphic  the  other  clay,  exactly  that  of  Rossini  ?  The  contriver  of 
clumsy  phrases,  generally  thorny  and  spiteful  save  about  a  certain 
few,  did  a  positive  harm  to  Dore  in  this  instance.     The  people 

Gustave  Dord  at  Work.  303 

who  know  Dore^s  gallant  life;  his  sensitive,  delicate,  highly- 
wrought  mind ;  and  his  passionate  love  of  Rossini's  art  (of 
which  Dore  is  so  brilliant  a  connoisseur  and  so  accomplished  an 
executant)  will  dismiss  the  clownish  condemnation  against  which  I 
have  felt  bound  as  an  Englishman  to  protest. 

It  would  seem  that  on  a  certain  morning  the  Athenaum^  on  the 
look  out  for  an  anatomist  in  matters  artistic,  fell  in  with  a 

The  Saturday  Review  is  in  advantageous  contrast  to  the  AtJienceum 
in  its  attitude  towards  Dore.  In  the  Review  the  many  sides  of  the 
best-known  artist  of  our  epoch,  are  considered.  "  Gustave  Dore*  stands 
just  now  as  the  most  startling  art-phenomenon  in  Europe;  his  genius 
at  each  turn  changes,  like  colours  in  a  kaleidoscope,  into  something 
new  and  unexpected." 

Surely  this  is  truer  than  the  statement  that,  the  Neophyte  apart, 
the  Dore*  Gallery  is  trash — or  was  when  the  critic  visited  it  In 
the  one  instance  there  is  prejudice,  coarseness  of  feeling,  jaundice  ; 
in  the  other  there  is  a  liberal  outlook  upon  the  whole  of  the  art-life 
of  a  man  of  genius. 

The  foregoing  remarks  on  Dore*  as  a  worker  have  been  provoked 
by  a  pictorial  summary  of  the  events  of  last  season,  in  which  he  is 
represented  as  one  of  our  distinguished  visitors,  armed  with  pencils 
and  brushes  at  all  points.  He  is  painting,  drawing,  and  sketching 
(I  wonder  he  is  not  eating  and  drinking  also)  at  the  same  moment. 
The  caricaturist's  level  of  criticism  is  about  as  true  and  just  as  that 
of  the  Athenceum  critic. 

Let  the  reader  now  contemplate  the  last  and  greatest  effort  of  the 
poet-artist's  power — 

Christ  leaving  the  Prjetorium. 

The  canvas  is  thirty  feet  by  twenty.  In  regard  to  execution  it  is  a 
marvellous  tour  de  force:  and  the  depth  and  pathos  of  the  concep- 
tion are  extraordinary.  The  beholder  is  fairly  startled  and  bewildered 
by  the  prodigious  tumult  that  encompasses  the  sublime  central  figure, 
which  commands  an  awful  quiet  round  about  it — a  quiet  that  im- 
presses like  the  agonising  stillness  which  is  the  centre  of  a  cyclone. 
The  reality  of  the  prodigious  host  that  hems  the  Saviour  round  about 
after  judgment,  and  His  distance  from  the  brutal  soldiers,  who  guard 
Him  and  lead  the  way ;  are  effects  which  only  genius  of  the  highest 
order  could  conceive.  The  stages  by  which  the  fervid  dream  grew 
to  this  mighty  thing — the  child  of  one  brain,  formed  by  one  pair  of 

y  2 

304  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

never-resting  hands — return  vividly  to  me  while  I  sit  wondering — who 
have  looked  upon  the  canvas  hundreds  of  times,  during  the  slow 
process  of  years  which  has  covered  it;  and  which  has  filled  every  square 
foot  of  it  with  the  heat  and  glow  of  life,  and  sublimated  the  whole 
with  the  sacred  tragedy  that  is  the  centre  and  impulse  of  it.  The 
patient  drawing  of  groups ;  the  days  and  nights  spent  in  endeavours 
to  realise  the  dream  of  the  One  Presence  amid  the  multitude ;  the 
painting  and  repainting;  the  studies  of  impulse  to  be  impressed  upon 
each  of  the  crowd  of  men  and  women ;  and  the  exact  poise  of  light 
and  shade ;  were  accomplished  with  a  fervour  that  burned  through 
every  difficulty,  and  swept  away  every  hindrance.  Haste !  I  who 
remember  this  most  solemn  sum  of  work,  in  nearly  all  its  particulars; 
and  used  to  speculate  so  often  and  anxiously  on  the  fate  of  the  great 
canvas,  while  the  Germans  were  throwing  shells  into  Paris;  who 
watched  the  ever-heightening  excitement  with  which,  after  the 
war  ended,  and  the  picture  had  been  disinterred,  the  toil  was 
resumed  and  carried  triumphantly  to  an  end ;  who  have  seen  the 
righteous  thought  which  has  preceded  the  fold  of  coarse  garment, 
and  the  articulation  of  every  limb;  and  lived  in  the  excitement 
which  filled  the  last  days  the  canvas  was  to  remain  under  the  artist's 
hand  ;  still  wonder  more  than  any  outsider  at  the  vast  expenditure 
of  power  that  is  spread  before  me.  Aye,  in  this,  the  hands  answered 
to  the  brain-pan  of  the  poet  with  "  the  patience  of  the  ox."  They  were 
trained  upon  the  Neophyte,  and  upon  the  Triumph  of  Christianity — 
to  this  crowning  effort,  in  which  may  be  seen  traces  of  the  Byzan- 
tine school,  of  Raffaelle,  of  study,  in  short,  of  the  great  styles  of  the 
past — but  in  which  the  genius  of  Dor£  shines  with  a  lustre  all  its 

The  idealist  and  the  realist  are  before  us.  While  the  turbulent 
host  appears  to  move  upon  the  spectator,  and  the  ear  almost 
strains  to  catch'  the  deep  murmurs  of  the  passionate  mob,  the 
sublime  motive  of  the  whole  fills  the  mind  with  awe.  There  may  be 
many  opinions  on  the  means  and  methods  by  which  the  thrilling 
effect  is  produced  ;  but  there  can  be  only  one  as  to  the  extraordinary 
force  of  it  upon  the  mind.  It  compels  an  emotion  deeper  than  any 
which  painter  has  produced  in  our  time.  The  daring  of  the  gifted 
man  who  produced  it  compels  the  spectator's  respect — in  these  days, 
when  so  many  artists  are  content  to  dwell  in  prettiness  for  ever — to 
follow  the  fashion  of  the  day,  and  to  execute  to  order  with  the 
obedience  of  the  sign  painter. 

By  heroic  work  from  dawn  to  dusk,  through  the  boyish  years 
mo  it  lads  give  at  least  somewhat  to  pleasure,  the  long  path  has 

Gustave  DorS  at  Work.  305 

been  travelled  to  this  gallery.  It  has  been  more  than  a  journey 
round  the  world.  The  tentative  work  scattered  by  the  way  is 
prodigious,  but  a  pure  thirst  for  the  highest  fame  has  been  the 
unfailing  incentive. 

As  in  illustration  Dore  has  been  schooling  himself  through  many 
years'  study  of  Rabelais,  Dante,  and  Cervantes  to  Shakespeare, 
which  is  to  be  presently  his  magnum  opts:  so  in  painting  he 
has  been  gallantly  fighting  his  way  per  ardua  ad  a/fa.  Never  in 
haste,  but  always  at  work — should  be  upon  the  shield  of  my 
illustrious  and  gallant  friend. 

Blanch ard  Jerrold. 

shakespeare's  philosophers 
and  Jesters. 



*Y  reason  for  classing  together  Shakespeare's  philo- 
sophers and  jesters  in  this  series  of  essays  is  because 
his  philosophers  are  wont  to  be  fine  jesters,  and  his 
.  best  jesters  dispense  profoundest  philosophy.  The 
great  poet  knew  that  the  highest  wisdom  frequently  takes  the  form  of 
wit ;  while  a  sportive  word  will  often  convey  a  grave  thought.  The 
wisest  heart  will  vent  itself  in  a  gay  sally,  when  the  lightest  tongue  gives 
utterance  to  a  weighty  reflection ;  knowledge  is  sometimes  promulgated 
through  a  playful  speech,  as  the  solemn  fact  lurks  within  the  mirth- 
ful sentence.  There  is  a  proverbial  expression,  "  Many  a  true  word 
spoken  in  jest ;"  and  Shakespeare  has  paraphrased  the  maxim,  in 
"Jesters  do  oft  prove  prophets."  Very  appropriately  may  his 
philosophers  be  consorted  with  his  jesters:  since  his  philosophy 
contains  so  bland  and  cheerful  a  spirit;  and  his  jesting  so  much 
of  serious  meaning. 

My  plan  upon  the  present  occasion  is  to  give  (as  succinctly  as 
possible)  an  abstract  of  the  salient  characteristics  of  each  creation  of 
the  poet  brought  forward  in  illustration ;  and  then  proceed  to  point 
out  their  several  best  philosophical  or  most  witty  passages.  My  inten- 
tion is  less  to  enumerate  his  several  philosophers  as  individual  charae 
ters,  than  to  collect  their  finest  philosophical  utterances ;  less  to  anim- 
advert upon  his  several  jesters,  in  their  own  capacities,  than  to  gather 
together  their  best  and  most  pregnant  jests.  I  shall  not  so  much 
instance  his  set  philosophers— wisdom  professors — of  which  there  are 
but  few  among  his  dramatis  persona,  as  I  shall  adduce  and  descant 
upon  his  own  pure  social  philosophy  and  heart-wisdom,  which  he 
has  infused  into  so  many  of  his  characters.  With  its  own  gentle 
force — subtlest  force,  intensest  force — it  pervades  equally  the  wild 
sublime  of  Lear's  passion,  the  might  of  Othello's  anguish,  the 
maternal  grief  of  Constance,  the  meek-borne  injuries  of  Imogen, 

Shakespeare 's  Philosophers  and  Jesters.        307 

the  reflective  mind  of  Hamlet,  the  hard  intellect  of  Iago,  the  fero- 
cious levity  of  Richard,  the  unscrupulous  ambition  of  Lady  Macbeth, 
the  wit  of  Benedick,  the  faith  of  Troilus,  the  sprightliness  of  Rosa- 
lind, the  jocund  ease  of  Feste  the  clown ; — nay,  the  very  fancy  and 
imaginative  grace  of  Ariel,  Oberon,  and  Robin  Goodfellow — all  in 
turn  are  made  the  medium  of  this  beautiful  wisdom  and  philosophy 
of  our  poet-teacher.  It  is  never  obtruded,  never  paraded — never 
foisted  in ;  but  it  exists  easily,  spontaneously,  instinctively — accom- 
panying every  event  of  life  and  every  phase  of  character  depicted 
by  him  with  the  same  integral  consociation  as  that  with  which  its 
spirit  imbues  the  whole  expanse  of  created  Nature. 

I  have  said  that  Shakespeare  seldom  drew  a  professed  philosopher. 
There  occurs  but  one  actual  specimen  regularly  so  styled  and  so 
delineated  in  the  entire  range  of  the  dramas ;  and  that  one  is  Ape- 
mantus,  in  the  play  of  "Timon  of  Athens."  He  appears  among  the 
list  of  dramatis  persona  thus  :  "  Apemantus,  a  churlish  philosop/ier" 
If  there  be  one  characteristic  more  than  another  that  Shakespeare 
seems  to  have  loathed,  it  is  that  of  churlishness.  A  morose  fastidious- 
ness ;  a  disposition  to  find  fault,  and  to  be  discontented  with  life  and 
with  mankind,  were  subjects  of  peculiar  antipathy  to  Shakespeare's 
genial  nature.  His  large  candour,  his  wide  benevolence,  his  universal 
toleration,  could  not  let  him  sympathise  with  a  cynicism  which  is  the 
growth  of  spleen  and  self-love  rather  than  of  real  superiority.  These 
ostensible  philosophers — these  wisdom-mongers,  would  fain  have 
their  crabbed  disgust  believed  to  be  the  offspring  of  greatness  (like 
that  loftily  squeamish  gentleman  in  Voltaire's  story,  who  is  thus 
described  by  a  doting  admirer  :  "  What  a  great  man  !  What  a  first 
rate  genius  !  Nothing  pleases  him  I),  but  it  is  in  fact  the  result  of  a 
spurious  misanthropy,  more  nearly  allied  to  malice  and  envy  than 
to  a  genuine  scorn  or  indignation.  And  so  has  he  drawn  this  Ape- 
mantus— base-born  and  base-natured,  he  takes  up  the  profession  of 
railer  against  society  as  much  from  a  bloated  conceit  of  his  own 
superiority  as  in  revenge  for  his  own  sordid  condition.  He  is  well 
-contrasted  with  the  steward,  Flavius,  who  in  his  humble  station  rises 
superior  to  the  cynical  admonisher.  The  affected  philosopher,  and 
the  unaffected  judicious  observer;  the  professed  hater,  and  the 
attached  servitor ;  the  snarler,  and  the  faithful  retainer ;  the  acrid 
wiseacre,  and  the  genial  honest  man,  are  forcibly  brought  into 
opposition.  Flavius's  excellent  common  sense  and  plain  practical 
wisdom,  with  kindly  feeling  and  affectionate  heart,  shine  out  nobly 
against  the  studied  and  acted  rancour  of  the  other. 

Apemantus  is  more  rude  than  caustic ;  more  insolent  than  stem. 

308  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

He  is  spiteful,  sneering,  and  restlessly  sarcastic.  He  is  wearisome 
in  his  perpetual  effort  to  be  severe.  No  wonder  that  Timon,  when 
he  is  driving  him  off,  exclaims,  as  he  flings  a  stone  after  him,  "Away, 
thou  tedious  rogue!"  He  is  vain  of  his  splenetic  mood,  and  values 
himself  upon  his  ill-nature.  When  the  Fool  makes  some  fleering 
rejoinder,  he  says,  "  That  answer  might  have  become  Apemantus,'" 
as  though  he  really  grudged  another  a  snappish  retort  When  Timon 
greets  him  on  his  entrance  with,  "Good-morrow  to  thee,  gentle 
Apemantus,"  he  replies,  "Till  I  be  gentle,  stay  for  my  good-morrow;" 
as  though  proud  of  his  &whood.  His  mere  railing  grates  upon 
Timon's  sore  feelings  in  the  period  of  his  adversity,  whose  resent- 
ments lie  too  deep  for  such  wordy  abuse  as  Apemantus's.  Timon's 
wounded  heart  shrinks  from  joining  in  these  shallow  and  brawling 
vituperations.  His  grave  sense  of  injury  will  not  let  him  find  comfort 
in  the  conventional  cynicisms  of  the  habitual  churl.  He  knows  that 
he  has  real  cause  to  feel  what  the  other  only  affects  to  feel.  The 
poet  could  scarcely  have  given  us  a  stronger  impression  of  Timon's 
genuine  wrongs,  and  of  his  being  wounded  to  the  soul  at  them,  than 
by  the  way  in  which  he  has  made  him  reject  fellowship  with  Ape- 
mantus.  Timon  knows  that  his  own  griefs — his  absolute  expe- 
rience—supply him  with  far  greater  truths  of  bitterness  than  any 
uttered  by  the  professional  philosopher.  Therefore,  when  Apemantusr 
accusing  him  of  aping  philosophic  acrimony,  says,  "  Do  not  assume 
my  likeness,"  Timon  indignantly  retorts,  "Were  I  like  thee,  I?d  throw 
away  myself."  And  upon  Apemantus  proceeding  to  school  him  farther,, 
how  grandly  the  real  sufferer,  in  his  galled  wrath,  turns  upon  the 
amateur  complainer,  and  how  fine  is  the  poetic  diction  throughout ! 
Apemantus  tauntingly  asks  : — 

Think'st  thou  the  bleak  air,  thy  boisterous  chamberlain, 
Wilt  put  thy  shirt  on  warm  ?    Will  these  moss'd  trees, 
That  have  outliv'd  the  eagle,  page  thy  heels, 
And  skip  when  thou  point'st  out  ?    Will  the  cold  brook, 
Candied  with  ice,  caudle  thy  morning  taste, 
To  cure  thy  o'er-night's  surfeit  ?    Call  the  creatures, — 
Whose  naked  natures  live  in  all  the  spite 
Of  wreakful  heaven,  whose  bare  unhoused  trunks, 
To  the  conflicting  elements  expos 'd, 
Answer  mere  nature, — bid  them  flatter  thee  ; 
O  !  thou  shalt  find- 
TV///.  A  fool  of  thee : — Depart ! 
Apem.  I  love  thee  better  now  than  e'er  I  did. 
Tim.  I  hate  thee  worse. 
Apem.                              Why  ? 
Tim.  Thou  flatter' st  miser}*. 

Shakespeare  s  Philosophers  and  Jesters.        309 

Apcm.  I  flatter  not ;  but  say,  thou  art  a  caitiff. 
Tim.  Why  dost  thou  seek  me  out  ? 
Apem.  To  vex  thee. 

Tim.  Always  a  villain's  office,  or  a  fool's  : 

Dost  please  thyself  in't  ? 
Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.  What !  a  knave  too  ? 

Apem.  If  thou  didst  put  this  sour-cold  habit  on 

To  castigate  thy  pride,  'twere  well ;  but  thou 

Dost  it  enforcedly ; — thoud'st  courtier  be  again, 

Wert  thou  not  a  beggar.    Willing  misery 

Outlives  incertain  pomp,  is  crown'd  before  : 

The  one  is  filling  still,  never  complete ; 

The  other,  at  high  wish  :  Best  state,  contentless, 

Hath  a  distracted  and  most  wretched  being. 

Worse  than  the  worst,  content.  . 

Thou  should'st  desire  to  die,  being  miserable. 
Tim.  Not  by  his  breath,  that  is  more  miserable. 

Thou  art  a  slave,  whom  Fortune's  tender  arm 

With  favour  never  clasp'd  ;  but  bred  a  dog. 

Hadst  thou,  like  us,  from  our  first  swath,  proceeded 

The  sweet  degrees  that  this  brief  world  affords 

To  such  as  may  the  passive  drugs  of  it 

Freely  command,  thou  wouldst  have  plunged  thyself 

In  general  riot ;  and  never  learn'd 

The  icy  precepts  of  respect,  that  follow'd 

The  sugar'd  game  before  thee.    But  myself, 

Who  had  the  world  as  my  confectionary  : 

The  mouths,  the  tongues,  the  eyes,  the  hearts  of  men 

At  duty  more  than  I  could  frame  employment ; 

That  numberless  upon  me  stuck,  as  leaves 

Do  on  the  oak,  have  with  one  winter's  brush 

Fell  from  their  boughs,  and  left  me  open,  bare 

For  every  storm  that  blows  : — I,  to  bear  this, 

That  never  knew  but  better,  is  some  burden. 

Thy  nature  did  commence  in  sufPrance ;  time 

Hath  made  thee  hard  in't.    Why  shouldst  thou  hate  men  ? 

They  never  flatter'd  thee :  What  hast  thou  given  ?■  Hence,  begone  I 

If  thou  hadst  not  been  born  the  worst  of  men, 

Thou  hadst  been  a  knave  and  flatterer. 
Apem.  Art  thou  proud  yet  ? 

Tim.  Ay;  that  I  am  not  thee. 

There  is  a  short  scene  in  this  same  play  of  "  Timon  of  Athens  " 
where  Shakespeare,  with  his  usual  skill  in  casuistry,  has  argued  a 
question  on  both  sides, — the  question  of  violence,  bloodshed,  and 
homicide;  together  with  what  should  be  the  leniency  or  severity 
such  crime  ought  to  meet  from  its  judges.  The  senator  who  takes 
the  stricter  view  has  a  fine  remark  upon  moral  courage :  it  is  this  : 

3 10  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

He's  truly  valiant  that  can  wisely  suffer 
The  worst  that  men  can  breathe ;  and  make  his  wrongs 
His  outsides  ;  wear  them,  like  his  raiment,  carelessly ; 
And  ne'er  prefer  his  injuries  to  his  heart,  • 

To  bring  it  into  danger. 

He  also  finely  says  : — 

Quarrelling  is  valour  misbegot,  and  came  into  the  world 
When  sects  and  factions  were  newly  born. 

There  are  two  philosophers,  historically  renowned  as  such — tradi- 
tional sages — whom  Shakespeare  has  introduced  among  his  delinea- 
tions. I  allude  to  Nestor  and  Ulysses.  The  latter  always  figures  as  "the 
wise  Ulysses,"  "  the  prudent  Ulysses,"  "  the  politic  Ulysses  " — the 
man  of  caution,  experience,  and  knowledge :  great  in  counsel,  all- 
sufficient  in  advice,  unfailing  in  resource.  He  sustains  his  reputation  on 
the  dramatist's  page ;  for  from  him  flow  choicest  axioms  and  shrewdest 
comment,  in  teeming  abundance.  His  brain  devises  wisdom;  his  mouth 
delivers  wisdom ;  his  deeds  enact  wisdom ;  he  thinks,  speaks,  and 
practises  wisdom.  He  plans  the  most  artful  schemes,  and  carries 
them  out  consummately.  He  was  conceived,  born,  bred,  and  versed 
in  strategy;  and  so  conversant  is  he  with  human  foibles,  that  he 
brings  his  strategy  to  bear  with  uniform  success,  in  consequence  of 
knowing  how  to  adapt  and  administer  it  with  due  regard  to  this 
science  in  humanity.  How  adroitly  does  he  play  off  the  bullying 
Ajax  upon  the  pride-swollen  Achilles — turning  the  conceit  of  the  one 
and  the  arrogance  of  the  other  to  the  fulfilment  of  his  own  views 
upon  both  !  With  what  .  skill  he  humours,  cajoles,  induces,  or 
enforces !  With  what  rapidity  and  acuteness  he  discerns  the  light 
and  unstable  character  of  Cressida ;  estimates  the  sterling  worth  of 
Troilus ;  recognises  Diomed ;  or  greets  Hector !  How  justly  he 
penetrates  the  characters  and  gauges  the  moral  and  intellectual 
dimensions  of  all  those  around  him  !  He  is  as  prompt  and  keen  in 
observation  of  individuals  as  he  is  proficient  in  abstract  acquaintance ' 
with  mankind  in  general.  There  is  not  more  pregnant  eloquence  in 
all  the  characters  of  Shakespeare  than  streams  from  his  lips :  he, 
indeed,  hath  a  "mouth  speaking  great  things" — a  true  Chrysostom 
(golden-mouth).  As  I  have  elsewhere  cited  the  chief  apothegms, 
or  pointed  sayings,  of  Ulysses,  I  shall  here  quote  one  of  his  finest  and 
most  philosophical  speeches — that  upon  "  Degree."  It  is  a  superb 
vindication  of  the  merits — say,  the  virtue — of  order,  and  comprises  the 
philosophy  of  rank,  precedence,  and  appointed  station,  or  "  Degree." 

He  says : — 

The  heavens  themselves,  the  planets  and  this  centre. 
Observe  degree,  priority,  and  place, 

Shakespeare  s  Philosophers  and  Jesters.       3 1 1 

Insiture,  course,  proportion,  season,  form, 

Office  and  custom  in  all  line  of  order : 

And  therefore  is  the  glorious  planet,  Sol, 

In  noble  eminence  enthron'd  and  spher'd, 

Amidst  the  other,  whose  med'cinable  eye 

Corrects  the  ill  aspetts  of  planets  evil, 

And  posts,  like  the  commandment  of  a  king, 

Sans  check,  to  good  and  bad.    But  when  the  planets, 

In  evil  mixture,  to  disorder  wander, 

"What  plagues,  and  what  portents !  what  mutiny  ! 

What  raging  of  the  sea,  shaking  of  earth, 

Commotion  in  the  winds,  frights,  changes,  horrors, 

Divert  and  crack,  rend  and  deracinate 

The  unity  and  married  calm  of  states 

Quite  from  their  fixure  !    Oh  !  when  Degree  is  shak'd, 

Which  is  the  ladder  to  all  high  designs, 

The  enterprise  is  sick.    How  could  communities, 

Degrees  in  schools,  and  brotherhoods  in  cities, 

Peaceful  commerce  from  dividable  shores, 

The  primogenitive  and  due  of  birth, 

Prerogative  of  age,  crowns,  sceptres,  laurels, 

But  by  Degree  stand  in  authentic  place  ? 

Take  but  Degree  away,  untune  that  string, 

And,  hark,  what  discord  follows  !  each  thing  meets 

In  mere  oppugnancy.    The  bounded  waters 

Should  lift  their  bosoms  higher  than  the  shores, 

And  make  a  sop  of  all  this  solid  globe. 

Strength  should  be  lord  of  imbecility, 

And  the  rude  son  should  strike  his  father  dead  : 

Force  should  be  right ;  or,  rather,  right  and  wrong 

(Between  whose  endless  jar  justice  resides) 

Should  lose  their  names,  and  so  should  justice,  too. 

Then  everything  includes  itself  in  power : 

Power  into  will,  will  into  appetite ; 

And  appetite,  a  universal  wolf, 

So  doubly  seconded  with  will  and  power, 

Must  make,  perforce,  a  universal  prey, 

And  last  eat  up  himself.     Great  Agamemnon, 

This  chaos,  when  Degree  is  suffocate, 

Follows  the  choking : 

And  this  neglection  of  Degree  it  is, 

That  by  a  pace  goes  backward,  with  a  purpose 

It  hath  to  climb.    The  General's  disdain'd 

By  him  one  step  below ;  he  by  the  next ; 

The  next  by  him  beneath :  so  every  step, 

Exampled  by  the  first  pace  that  is  sick 

Of  his  superior,  grows  to  an  envious  fever 

Of  pale  and  bloodless  emulation : 

And  'tis  this  fever  that  keeps  Troy  on  foot, 

Not  her  own  sinews. — To  end  a  talc  of  length, 

Troy  in  our  weakness  stands — not  in  her  strength. 

312  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

This  speech  is  like  an  essay  by  Bacon  put  into  metred  language. 
No  feature  in  Shakespeare's  social  character  seems  more  distinct  than 
that  he  was  a  quiet  is  t,  and  in  all  generals,  a  Conservative.  He  con- 
stantly gives  indication  of  an  abstract  reverence  for  "  time-honoured 
institutions."  Imogen  says,  "  Breach  of  custom  is  breach  of  all," 
and  examples  to  the  same  effect  might  be  multiplied.  He  would 
have  been  the  last  man  to  have  "  removed  his  neighbour's  landmark  " 
— not  altogether  from  the  injustice  of  the  act — although  upon  that 
ground  he  would  have  been  consistent  \  but  from  an  experienced 
sense  of  rule  and  order.  His  system  of  philosophy  seems  to  have 
run  undeviatingly  on  that  tramway. 

Hamlet  is  the  prince  of  poetical  philosophers,  moralising  upon  life, 
upon  mankind,  upon  himself,  out  of  the  depths  of  his  own  intelli- 
gence ;  while  Prospero  is  a  princely  philosopher,  whose  wisdom  is 
chiefly  derived  from  books  and  studious  contemplation ;  but  upon 
both  these  individual  creations  of  our  poet's  brain  I  have  dwelt  at 
such  length  in  my  "Shakespeare  Characters"  as  to  preclude  the 
necessity  of  here  discussing  the  peculiarity  of  their  several  philo- 
sophic temperaments. 

As  Hamlet  is  the  greatest  of  all  Shakespeare's  moral  philosophers, 
so  is  Iago  the  strongest  of  his  ////-moral  philosophers.  Iago's  philo- 
sophy is  the  worst  of  immorality,  for  it  holds  that  evil  is  power ; 
that  good  is  a  nonentity ;  that  vice  is  an  acquisition ;  and  that 
virtue  is  a  tning  to  be  avoided,  or  to  be  taken  advantage  of — in  either 
case,  a  weakness.  Here  is  some  of  this  "reasoning  wretch's*' 
immoral  philosophy.  When,  for  instance,  protesting  he  loves  not 
the  Moor,  and  Roderigo  naturally  enough  observes,  "  I  would  not 
follow  him  then,*'  Iago  replies : — 

O  !  sir,  content  you. 
I  follow  him  to  serve  my  turn  upon  him : 
We  cannot  all  be  masters,  nor  all  masters 
Cannot  be  truly  followed.    You  shall  mark 
Many  a  duteous  and  knee-crooking  knave, 
That,  doting  on  his  own  obsequious  bondage, 
Wears  out  his  time,  much  like  his  master's  ass, 
For  naught  hut  provender ;  and  when  he's  old,  cashier'd. 
Whip  me  such  honest  knaves :  others  there  are 
Who,  trimm'd  in  forms  and  usages  of  duty, 
Keep  yet  their  hearts  attending  on  themselves  ; 
And  throwing  hut  shows  of  service  on  their  lords 
Do  well  thrive  by  them  ;  and  when  they've  lin'd  their  coats 
Do  themselves  homage  :  these  fellows  have  some  soul — 
And  such  a  one  do  I  profess  myself. 

Again,  when  Michael  Cassio,  wrung  with  self-reproach,  exclaims : 

Shakespeare's  Philosophers  and  Jesters.        3 1 3 

11  Reputation,  reputation,  reputation !  O !  I  have  lost  my  reputa- 
tion !  I  have  lost  the  immortal  part,  sir,  of  myself;  and  what 
remains  is  bestial.  My  reputation,  Iago,  my  reputation!"  the 
fiend  comforter  answers: — "As  I  am  an  honest  man,  I  thought 
you  had  received  some  bodily  wound.  There  is  more  offence  in  that 
than  in  *  Reputation.'  Reputation  is  an  idle  and  most  false  imposi- 
tion, oft  got  without  merit  and  lost  without  deserving.  You  have 
lost  no  reputation  at  all — unless  you  repute  yourself  such  a  loser." 

His  own  sophistry  is  flatly  contradicted  by  himself  afterwards,  in 
the  hypocritical  and  famous  speech  of  virtuous  indignation  which  he 
makes  to  Othello  : — 

Good  name  in  man  or  woman,*dear  my  lord, 

Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls. 

Who  steals  my  purse  steals  trash ;  'tis  something — nothing  : 

'Twas  mine,  'tis  his,  and  has  been  slave  to  thousands  : 

But  he  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name 

Robs  me  of  that  which  not  enriches  him, 

And  makes  me  poor  indeed ! 

And  how  accurately  this  supreme  villain  knows  the  mischief  he  is 

working  : — 

Trifles,  light  as  air, 

Are,  to  the  jealous,  confirmations  strong 

As  proofs  of  holy  writ. — This  may  do  something. 

The  Moor  already  changes  with  my  poison  : 

Dangerous  conceits  are,  in  their  natures,  poisons, 

Which  at  the  first  are  scarce  found  to  distaste — 

But,  with  a  little  act  upon  the  blood, 

Burn  like  the  mines  of  sulphur. 

Yet  with  diabolical  composure  he  steadily  administers  this  poison. 
Xo  one  among  Shakespeare's  men  of  intellect  utters  stronger  axioms 
of  social  and  moral  philosophy  than  this  remarkable  character.  The 
career  which  he  had  chalked  out  for  himself  furnished  him  the  motive 
for  this ;  and  his  mental  power  and  energy  were  stimulants  to  his 

That  Iago's  is  a  voluntary  system — a  deliberate  choice  and  pursuit 
of  wickedness  —  his  own  words  prove  in  glaring  and  marvellous 
strength  : — 

Virtue  ?  a  fig !  'Tis  in  ourselves  that  we  are  thus  or  thus.  Our  bodies  are  our 
gardens,  to  the  which  our  wills  are  gardeners :  so  that,  if  we  will  plant  nettles, 
nr  sow  lettuce  ;  set  hyssop,  and  weed  up  thyme ;  supply  it  with  one  gender  of 
herbs,  or  distract  it  with  many;  either  to  have  it  sterile  with  idleness,  or  manured 
with  industry — why,  the  power  and  corrigible  authority  of  this  lies  in  our  wills. 

Iago's  is  the  philosophy  of  diabolism. 

3 1 4  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

Another  of  these  systematic  evil  philosophers  is  Richard  III. 
He  purposely  and  consciously  makes  selection  of  villainy  as  the  wiser 
and  fruitfuller  course  of  action.  He  adopts  it  as  his  creed,  and  exer- 
cises it  as  his  chosen  vocation.  He  cultivates  "  crooked  wisdom,"  as 
harmonising  with  his  own  deformity.  He  cherishes  obliquity  of 
character,  as  matching  with  his  own  tortuous  person.  He  follows 
sinister  courses  and  devious  policy,  as  consonant  with  his  own  mis- 
shapen frame.  He  fosters  a  perverted  intellect  and  a  wryed 
conscience,  as  part  and  parcel  of  his  ugly  conformation  :  in  short,  he 
is  a  mental  and  physical  unity  of  depravation.  He  at  once  abets 
Fate,  and  avenges  himself  upon  it  by  rendering  his  moral  and  mental 
being  no  less  disfigured  and  repulsive  than  his  corporeal  frame.  He 
distinctly  declares  this,  saying  : — 

Since  the  heavens  have  shap'd  my  body  so, 
Let  hell  make  crook'd  mv  mind  to  answer  it. 

And  subsequently  confirms  his  determination  : — 

I,  that  am  curtail'd  of  this  fair  proportion, 

Created  of  feature  by  dissembling  nature, 

Deform'd,  unfinish'd,  sent  before  my  time 

Into  this  breathing  world,  scarce  half  made  up, 

And  that  so  lamely  and  unfashionably 

That  the  dogs  bark  at  me  as  I  halt  by  them — 

Why  I,  in  this  weak,  piping  time  of  peace, 

Have  no  delight  to  pass  away  the  time, 

Unless  to  spy  my  shadow  in  the  sun, 

And  descant  on  mine  own  deformity : 

And  therefore — since  I  cannot  prove  a  lover, 

To  entertain  these  fair,  well-spoken  days, 

I  am  determin'd  to  prove  a  villain, 

And  hate  the  idle  pleasures  of  these  days. 

And  Richard's  whole  subsequent  career,  to  its  fierce  and  strenuous 
close,  is  a  practical  illustration  of  this — his  demon-philosophy. 

The  King  in  "All's  Well  that  Ends  Well"  is  a  gentle  moraliserand 
a  kindly-tempered  man.  Sickness  and  suffering  have  taught  hiro 
philosophy,  and  made  him  a  philosopher.  m  They  have  taught  him 
to  be  tolerant,  liberal-minded,  and  reflective :  they  have  made  him 
patient,  forbearing,  considerate ;  temperate  in  speech,  and  guarded  in 
judgment.  They  have  inspired  him  with  that  affecting  fortitude 
which  enables  ill-health  to  assume  a  cheerful  tone  in  the  midst  of  its 
pain.  He  summons  energy  to  deliver  that  spirited  charge  to  his 
young  lords  whom  he  is  despatching  to  the  wars,  bidding  them  let 
the  enemy  see  that  they  "Come,  not  to  woo  honour,  but  to  wed  it: 


Shakespeare  s  Philosophers  and  Jesters. 


and  he  can  also  find  good-humour  to  tolerate  the  chirping  tone  of  his 
faithful  old  adherent,  Lafeu,  when  he  comes  to  tell  him  of  expected 
cure,  in  a  style  of  playfulness,  which  he  trusts  may  infect  his  royal 
master  with  some  of  his  own  hope.  He  delivers  a  speech  upon  false 
pride,  full  of  sound  reasoning,  and  containing  one  noble  sentiment, 
— right  royal  in  its  moral  truth,  and  therefore  well  befitting  a  royal 
mouth.     The  sentence  is  this  : — 

Honours  best  thrive 
When  rather  from  our  acts  we  them  derive, 
Than  our  fore-goers. 

And  in  the  last  scene  he  utters  two  reflections  that  bespeak  the 

aged  man  who  has  learnt  many  a  sad  truth  of  experience.       He 

says  : — 

Let's  take  the  instant  by  the  forward  top  ; 

For  we  are  old,  and  on  our  quick'st  decrees 

Th'  inaudible  and  noiseless  foot  of  Time 

Steals,  ere  we  can  effect  them. 

The  second  passage  mournfully  instances  that  too-late  remorse 
which  is  so  prone  to  supervene  upon  the  loss  of  a  friend ;  when  ever}' 
remembered  careless  word,  or  thoughtless  slighting  act— deemed 
at  the  time  of  little  moment — smites  us  with  a  cruel  force  of  self- 
reproach.     The  kind  old  royal  philosopher  says  : — 

Our  rash  faults 
Make  trivial  price  of  serious  things  we  have, 
Not  knowing  them,  until  we  know  their  grave. 
Oft  our  displeasures,  to  ourselves  unjust, 
Destroy  our  friends,  and  after  weep  their  dust. 


The  friar  in  "Much  Ado  about  Nothing"  and  the  friar  in  "Romeo 
and  Juliet  "  are  both  monastic  philosophers  ;  and  afford  such  aid,  in 
counsel  and  consolation,  to  their  mundane  brethren,  as  their  wisdom 
and  experience  suggest.  The  former — the  friar  in  "  Much  Ado  " — is 
quiet,  observant ;  patiently  abiding  his  time  to  speak,  until  his  silent 
comment  shall  have  enabled  him  to  deliver  judgment  upon  the  case 
before  him.  His  close  noting  of  the  belied  heroine,  Hero's,  demean- 
our, having  convinced  him  of  her  innocence,  he  advises  the  plan  of 
reporting  her  sudden  death ;  and  thus  sagely  explains  his  motive : — 

It  so  falls  out 
That  what  we  have  we  prize  not  to  the  worth 
Whiles  we  enjoy  it ;  but  being  lack'd  and  lost, 
Why,  then  we  rack  the  value  ;  then  we  find 
The  virtue  that  possession  would  not  show  us 
Whiles  it  was  ours  :  so  will  it  fare  with  Claudio ; 

3 1 6  The  Gentleniarts  Magazine. 

When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words, 

The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 

Into  his  study  of  imagination ; 

And  ever}*  lovely  organ  of  her  life 

Shall  come  apparelPd  in  more  precious  habit, 

More  moving-delicate  and  full  of  life, 

Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 

Than  when  she  lived  indeed.    Then  shall  he  mourn 

(If  ever  love  had  interest  in  his  liver), 

And  wish  he  had  not  so  accused  her ; 

Xo,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true. 

That  last  line  is  instinct  with  touching  knowledge  of  human 
charity — or  love.  It  uses  forbearance  towards  the  guilt  of  one  lost 
for  ever.  Pity,  rather  than  blame,  attends  the  faults  of  the  dead ; 
and  survivors  feel  inclined  to  visit  even  sin  with  regret  rather  than 

The  other  friar — Friar  Laurence — the  friar  in  "  Romeo  and 
Juliet/'  is  bland,  meditative,  studious.  He  goes  forth  with  the  dawn 
to  cull  simples,  and  descants  upon  their  rare  excellences  and  healing 
properties  in  a  strain  of  poetical  enthusiasm  worthy  of  an  early  riser 
and  a  botaniser.  I  dare  not  indulge  myself  with  quoting  his  exquisite 
and  well-known  speech,  beginning: — 

The  grey-ey'd  morn  smiles  on  the  frowning  night,  &c. 

1  must  content  myself  with  recalling  some  of  his  higher  philosophic 
sentences,  at  the  same  time  noting  how  the  loveliest  charm  of 
imaginative  diction  clothes  the  wise  utterances  of  this  gentle  old  con- 
fessor.    His  greeting  to  Romeo,  for  instance,  when  he  enters  his 

<:ell : — ■ 

Bencdicite ! — 

What  early  tongue  so  sweet  saluteth  me  ? 

Young  son,  it  argues  a  distempered  head 

So  soon  to  bid  good-morrow  to  thy  bed. 

Care  keeps  his  watch  in  every  old  man's  eye, 

And  where  care  lodges  sleep  will  never  lie ; 

But  where  unbruised  youth,  with  unstuff'd  brain, 

Doth  couch  his  limbs,  there  golden  sleep  doth  reign. 

How  prudently  he  chides  the  rapturous  rashness  of  the  young 

lover : — 

These  violent  delights  have  violent  ends, 

And  in  their  triumphs  die ;  like  fire  and  powder, 

Which  as  they  kiss  consume.    The  sweetest  honey 

Is  loathsome  in  his  own  deliciousness, 

And  in  his  taste  confounds  the  appetite ; 

Therefore,  love  moderately ;  long  love  doth  so ; 

Too  swift  arrives  as  tardy  as  too  slow. 

Shakespeare  s  Philosophers  and  Jesters.       317 

.And,  upon  Juliet's  approach,  he  adds  : — 

Here  comes  the  lady :  O !  so  light  a  foot 
Will  ne'er  wear  out  the  everlasting  flint. 
A  lover  may  bestride  the  gossamer, 

'    ■ 

That  idles  in  the  wanton  summer  air, 
And  yet  not  fall,  so  light  is  vanity. 

Wolsey  is  the  philosopher  of  adversity  \  or  rather,  his  philosophy 
assumes  a  more  purely  philosophic  character  after  his  downfall. 
Previously,  his  utterances  are  those  of  the  astute  worldling :  the  fertile 
ambitious  brain,  teeming  with  shrewd  calculations  upon  advancement, 
power,  domination,  together  with  confident  assertions  of  success,  or  well 
adapted  speeches  for  winning  success.  Contrast  the  arrogant,  irrespon- 
sible style  of  the  following  sentence  with  the  subdued,  reflective  tone  of 
his  subsequent  ones.     In  the  hour  of  his  high  assured  position  he 

says : — 

We  must  not  stint 
Our  necessary  actions  in  the  fear 
To  cope  malicious  censurers ;  which  ever 
As  ravenous  fishes  do  a  vessel  follow 
That  is  new  trimm'd  ;  but  benefit  no  further 
Than  vainly  longing.    What  v:e  oft  do  best, 
By  sick  interpreters  (once  weak  ones),  is 
Not  ours,  or  not  allow'd.    What  worst,  as  oft, 
Hitting  a  grosser  quality,  is  cried  up 
For  our  best  act.    If  we  shall  stand  still, 
In  fear  our  motion  will  be  mock'd  or  carp'd  at, 
We  should  take  root  here  where  we  sit,  or  sit 
State  Statues  only. 

But  in  the  winter  and  destitution  of  his  fortune,  how  clear-sightedly 
he  moralises  :  and  in  how  subdued  a  tone  ! — 

This  is  the  state  of  man  :— to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope  ;  to-morrow  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honours  thick  upon  him. 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And  when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening,  nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.    I  have  ventur'd, 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory ; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth :  my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me ;  and  now  has  left  me, 
Weary  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever  hide  me. 

And  his  closing  speech  of  warning  to  his  secretary,  Cromwell,  shows 

him  to  have  attained  one  of  the  grandest  secrets  in  philosophy — 
Vol.  X.,  N.S.  1873.  z 

3 1 8  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

that  of  self-knowledge ;  and  a  perception  of  that  which  wrought  his. 
overthrow.  With  an  affectionate  sympathy  for  the  after  career  of  his. 
pupil  and  confidential  servant,  he  says : — 

Mark  but  my  fate,  and  that  that  ruin'd  me. 
Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition  : 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels ;  how  can  man  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  it  ? 
Love  thyself  last ;  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee. 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 

[A  golden  rule,  that  last  line  !] 

Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 

To  silence  envious  tongues.    Be  just,  and  fear  not. 

Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's, 

Thy  God's,  and  truth's  ;  then  if  thou  fall'st,  O  !  Cromwell, 

Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr. 

The  magnanimity  displayed  in  Wolsey's  downfall,  as  contrasted 
with  the  previous  grandeur  of  his  haughtiness  and  insolence  of 
dominion,  is  one  among  the  crowd  of  examples  that  might  be  adduced 
of  Shakespeare's  equal  power  in  antithetical  portraiture. 

Brutus  is  the  philosopher  of  patriotic  duty  and  of  abstract  general 
good.  He  is  a  stoic  philosopher,  with  a  heart  swayed  by  the  gentlest 
and  most  benevolent  emotions.  He  cultivates  self-negation,  self- 
devotion,  self-immolation,  where  the  common  weal  demands  his 
individual  sacrifice.  At  the  call  of  public  benefit  he  is  ever  ready  to 
surrender  private  satisfaction.  His  friendship  for  Caesar,  his  affection 
for  Portia,  his  wife,  are  merged  in  his  love  of  country.  For  the  sake 
of  Rome's  advantage  he  willingly  yields  his  single  Roman  content, 
welfare,  or  even  life.  His  sentiments  are  calm,  sober,  dispassionate, 
almost  phlegmatic.  Here  are  a  few  of  them,  as  illustrations  of  the 
peculiar  feature  of  his  philosophy.     In  one  place  he  remarks  : — 

That  we  shall  die,  we  know ;  'tis  but  the  time, 
And  drawing  days  out  that  men  stand  upon. 

His  own  nature,  schooled  to  a  stern  impassiveness  by  the  stoical 
teaching  of  his  philosophy,  is  self-shown  when  he  speaks  of  himself  as 

That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire ; 
Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark, 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

He  thus  forcibly  describes  a  conceived  intention  : —    • 

Between*  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 
And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phantasma,  or  a  hideous  dream  : 
The  genius  and  the  mortal  instruments 

SJiakespeares  Philosophers  and  Jesters.        319 

Are  then  in  council ;  and  the  state  of  man, 
Like  to  a  little  kingdom,  suffers  then 
The  nature  of  an  insurrection. 

Elsewhere  he  says : — 

The  abuse  of  greatness  is,  when  it  disjoins 
Remorse  from  power. 

Adding : — 

'Tis  a  common  proof 
That  lowliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder, 
Whereto  the  climber  upward  turns  his  face ; 
But  when  he  once  attains  the  topmost  round, 
He  then  unto  the  ladder  turns  his  back, 
Looks  in  the  clouds,  scorning  the  base  degrees 
By  which  he  did  ascend. 

It  i6  Brutus  who  makes  that  very  acute  remark : — 

When  love  begins  to  sicken  and  decay, 
It  useth  an  enforced  ceremony. 
There  are  no  tricks  in  plain  and  simple  faith : 
But  hollow  men,  like  horses  hot  at  hand, 
Make  gallant  show  and  promise  of  their  mettle ; 
But  when  they  should  endure  the  bloody  spur, 
They  fall  their  crests,  and,  like  deceitful  jades, 
Sink  in  the  trial. 

And  his  is  the  celebrated  aphorism — instinct  with  the  very  quint* 
essence  of  wisdom — or  philosophy,  in  promptitude : — 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune : 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows,  and  in  miseries. 

I  think  no  one  character  in  all  the  dramas  of  Shakespeare  delivers 
nobler  philosophy,  in  the  guise  of  axiom  and  rule  of  conduct,  than 
the  illustrious  Marcus  Brutus;  and  his  prominent  mental  charac- 
teristic is  sententiousness. 

Cerimon,  the  worthy  old  Ephesian  lord  in  the  play  of  "  Pericles>,, 

who  studies  medicine  from  pure  benevolence  to  his  fellow  creatures, 

is  a  philanthropist  as  well  as  a  philosopher.    Among  a  number  of 

sage  acts  and  sayings,  he  has  one  admirably  wise  sentiment,  well 

becoming  the  mouth  of  a  man,  himself  of  high  rank,  wealthy,  and 

greatly  erudite.     He  says  : — 

I  held  it  ever, 
Virtue  and  cunning 

[Which  formerly  was  used  to  express  "  knowledge"  or  "  skill w] 

were  endowments  greater 
Than  nobleness  or  riches.    Careless  heirs 

z  2 

32p  The  Gentleman s  Magazine. 

May  the  two  latter  darken  and  expend ; 
But  immortality  attends  the  former, 
Making  a  man  a  god. 

I  have  thus  far  instanced  those  among  Shakespeare's  philosophic 
characters  mainly  grave  in  disposition ;  the  latter  portion  of  my 
present  essay  shall  be  devoted  to  citing  those  who  are  chiefly  distin- 
guished by  the  gaiety  that  pervades  their  philosophy.  

Gratiano,  the  mercurial  gentleman  in  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice," 
presents  himself  first  to  the  fancy  as  the  foremost  among  gay  and 
chirping  philosophers.  Gratiano  is  a  cheerful  fellow  upon  principle — 
a  laughter-loving,  careless  trifler  on  conviction.  He  has  a  theory  of 
vivacity,  a  system  of  gaiety,  a  philosophy  of  lightheartedness. 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come  ! 

lie  exclaims — 

And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine, 
Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 

He  is  convivial  from  mere  prudence,  blithe  and  jocund  from  settled 
purpose.  He  is  a  rattlepate  on  close  calculation,  a  merry  grig  upon 
rational  argument,  demonstration,  and  proof.  He  cultivates  thought- 
lessness upon  serious  consideration,  and  feels  morally  convinced  that 
to.  be  joyous  and  lively  is  your  only  true  wisdom.  He  fosters 
frivolity  upon  the  maturest  deliberation,  and  holds  that  to  nourish  and 
promote  gladness  of  spirit  is  the  one  important  duty  of  life.  He  is 
the  genius  of  joy — an  incarnation  of  mirth.   He  triumphantly  asks : — 

Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  gnmdsire,  cut  in  alabaster  ? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes  ?  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish  ? 

He  really  has  solid  reason  on  his  side,  and,  moreover,  his  philosophy 
is  most  wholesome.  He  is  well  versed,  too,  in  the  effects  of  a  too 
eager  pursuit  of  pleasure,  and  can  speak  to  good  purpose  upon 
gratification  and  satiety.     For  he,  on  another  occasion,  says :— • 

Who  riseth  from  a  feast 
With  that  keen  appetite  that  he  sits  down  ? 
Where  is  the  horse  that  doth  untread  again 
His  tedious  measures  with  the  unabated  fire 
That  he  did  pace  them  first  ?    All  things  that  are, 
Are  with  more  spirit  chased  than  enjoy'd. 

The  good  old  lord,  Gonzalo,  in  the  play  of  "The  Tempest,*  is  a 
right  cheery  philosopher.  He  has  the  composure  of  spirit,  the  calm 
and  strength  of  mind,  that  grow  out  of  good  humour,  a  good  heart, 

Shakespeare  s  Philosophers  and  y esters.       $z  i 

and  a  quiet  conscience.  In  the  thickest  of  the  sea  storm'  he  has  a 
manly,  encouraging,  and  even  a  humorous  word.  In  the  lowest  of 
the  King's  dejection,  and  deepest  self-reproach,  he  supplies  hopeful 
thoughts  and  exhilarating  topics  of  discourse.  His  offered  consola- 
tions to  his  drooping  royal  master,  when  they  are  shipwrecked  on  the 
island,  are  instinct  with  kindly  and  sensible  matter : — 

Beseech  you,  sir,  be  merry :  you  have  cause 

(So  have  we  all)  of  joy ;  for  our  escape 

Is  much  beyond  our  loss :  our  hint  of  woe 

Is  common ;  every  day  some  sailor's  wife, 

The  masters  of  some  merchant,  and  the  merchant, 

Have  just  our  theme  of  woe :  but  for  the  miracle, 

I  mean  our  preservation,  few  in  millions 

Can  speak  like  us :  then  wisely,  good  sir,  weigh 

Our  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 

His  healthful  conscience  permits  him  to  find  hopeful  aspects  in  all 
surrounding  things,  and  to  discover  sources  of  cheerful  fancy  in  what- 
ever he  meets.  "  How  lush  and  lusty  the  grass  looks  !  how  green  !" 
He  has  abounding  hope ;  and  despondency  never  owned  him  for  a 
bed-fellow.  He  devises  whimsies  for  amusing  his  master's  atten- 
tion ;  and  proposes  Utopian  schemes  of  government  to  divert  his 
melancholy.  He  is  a  true  picture  of  a  sweet-natured  man,  and 
whose  sweet  nature  makes  him  a  perfectly  delightful  companion — 
one  of  the  happiest  consummations  that  philosophy  can  achieve. 

Lord  Lafeu,  in  the  play  of  "All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,"  is  somewhat 
akin  to  Gonzalo  in  the  spirit  of  his  philosophy ;  but  the  character  is 
greatly  more  developed,  and  the  situations  in  which  it  figures  afford 
far  ampler  scope  for  diversified  attributes,  with  variety  of  speech  and 
demeanour.  Lafeu,  like  Gonzalo,  is  a  faithful  friend  and  servant  to 
a  kingly  master ;  and,  like  him,  seeks  to  alleviate  the  sufferings  he 
would  fain  see  removed.  But  beyond  this  the  resemblance  in  a 
measure  ceases.  Lafeu  is  greatly  more  irritable  than  Gonzalo. 
While  this  latter  maintains  his  sweet  temper  through  all  the  mockery 
and  worrying  of  the  witling  nobles  (Antonio  and  Sebastian),  they 
would  not  have  ventured  twice  upon  this  course  with  Lafeu:  he 
would  have  sent  them  flying.  He  loses  his  equanimity  more  than 
once — nay,  perpetually — in  his  disgust  at  the  poltroon  Parolles's 
vapouring  pretensions.  Lafeu  is  impressionable,  excitable;  full  of 
animation  and  eagerness.  His  is  a  cheerful  philosophy ;  but  it  is 
brisk,  warm,  impetuous — like  his  own  disposition*  He  is  a  genial, 
impulsive  man ;  full  of  kindly  feelings  and  generous  emotions. 

In  his  first  scene  he  utters  a  sentence  that  contains  distinctly  the 

322  The  Gentleman  $  Magazine. 

philosophy  of  an  affectionate-hearted,  yet  a  cheerful-hearted  man ; 
where  he  says :  "  Moderate  lamentation  is  the  right  of  the  dead  ; 
excessive  grief  the  enemy  of  the  living."    The  touch  of  petulance 
that  characterises  Lafeu's  manner  is  extremely  natural.    This  is  one 
of  his  summary  speeches  : — "  A  good  traveller  is  something  at  the 
latter  end  of  a  dinner;  but  one  that  lies  three-thirds,  and  uses  a 
known  truth  to  pass  a  thousand  nothings  with,  should  be  once  heard, 
and  thrice  beaten/'    Lafeu's  estimate  of  the  scoundrel  Parolles  is  full 
of  shrewd  perception  and  knowledge  of  character.    When  Bertram 
observes,  on  behalf  of  his  bragging  parasite,  "  It  may  be  you  have 
mistaken  him,  my  lord,"  the  discerning  soldier-veteran  replies,  u  And 
shall  do  so  ever,  though  I  took  him  at  his  prayers.     Fare  you  well, 
my  lord  (Bertram) ;  and  believe  this  of  me,  there  can  be  no  kernel  in 
this  light  nut :  the  soul  of  this  man  is  his  clothes :  trust  him  not  in 
matter  of  heavy  consequence  :  I  have  kept  of  them  tame,  and  know 
their  natures."     And  then,  how   gentlemanly  the  contempt  with 
which  the  old  nobleman  turns  upon  the  fellow  himself,  with  "  Fare 
you  well,  monsieur :  I  have  spoken  better  of  you  than  you  have  or 
will  deserve  at  my  hand  ;  but  we  must  do  good  against  evil."    And 
afterwards,  when  the  unmasked  coward  and  bully  comes  begging  of 
him,  how  playfully  the  good  old  lord  gives  knavery  a  hit  and  Fortune 
her  due  in  his  first  speech — not  recognising  Parolles.     But  then, 
suddenly  calling  him  to  mind,  bantering  him  about  his  "  drum ;"  and, 
lastly,  upon  finding  that  the  poor  wretch  is  indeed  in  misery  and 
starving,  relenting  with  true  Christian  toleration  and  mercy,  and  with 
the  magnanimity  of  true  courage.     Even  when  he  believed  him  to  be 
some  casual  beggar  he  gives  him  an  alms ;  but  upon  discovering  him 
to  be  the  impostor  he  knew  of  old  he  can  find  charity  even  for  him. 
This  is  true  philosophy,  the  large  philosophy  of  forbearance  and 
compassion  for  folly,  even  for  error.     This  is  the  short  scene  itself, 
which  I  must  take  leave  to  quote;  it  so  well  shows  Lafeu's  fine- 
hearted  philosophy.  Parolles  approaches  him,  crawling,  and  saying : — 

My  lord,  I  am  a  man  whom  Fortune  hath  cruelly  scratched. 

La  feu.  And  what  would  you  have  me  do  ?  'Tis  too  late"  to  pare  her  nails 
now.  Wherein  have  you  played  the  knave  with  Fortune  that  she  should  scratch 
you ;  who  herself  is  a  good  lady,  and  would  not  have  knaves  thrive  under  her  ? 
There's  a  quart  d'ecu  for  you  :  let  the  justices  make  you  and  Fortune  friends :  I 
am  for  other  business. 

Par.  I  beseech  your  honour  to  hear  me  one  single  word.  My  name,  my  good 
lord,  is  Parolles. 

Lafeu.    Cox  my  passion  !  give  me  your  hand.    How's  your  drum  ? 

Par.    O,  my  good  lord,  you  were  the  first  that  found  me. 

Lafeu.  Was  I  in  sooth  ?  And  I  was  the  first  that  lost  thee.  Well,  sirrah, 
inquire  farther  after  me.     Though  you  are  a  fool  and  a  knave,  you  shall  tat. 

Sliakespeares  Philosophers  and  Jesters.       323 

Falstaff—  immortal  Sir  John  Falstaff — must  certainly  come  into 
the  list  of  Shakespeare's  philosophers.  The  fat  knight  is  an  embodi- 
ment— an  incorporation  of  the  Epicurean  philosophy.  Ease  is  his 
study ;  sensuality  his  rule  of  conduct ;  luxury  his  principle ;  enjoy- 
ment his  faith ;  self-contentment  his  religion.  With  what  a  solemn 
weight  of  witty  argument  he  pleads  the  justice  of  ill-doing  for  the  sake 
of  gain,  and  with  what  gravity  of  humorous  casuistry  he  advocates 
wicked  pleasures  !  How  judicially  he  reasons  the  propriety  of  steal- 
ing, and  how  ingeniously  he  maintains  his  rightful  claims  to  good- 
living,  free-living,  any  living  that  is  to  him  agreeable  living  !  When 
he  wishes  Poins  to  succeed  in  prevailing  upon  Prince  Hal  to  join  in 
the  sport  of  highway  robbery,  with  what  heart  of  moral-sounding 
speech  he  expatiates  : — 

Well  (he  says),  mayst  thou  have  the  spirit  of  persuasion,  and  he  the  ears  of 
profiting,  that  what  thou  speak'st  may  move ;  what  he  hears  be  believed ;  that 
the  true  Prince  may  (for  recreation  sake)  prove  a  false  thief :  for  the  poor  abuses 
of  tfee  time  want  countenance. 

What  fine  irony ;  what  exquisite  sophistry  he  has  ever  at  his  com- 
mand !  The  perfect  special-pleading  on  behalf  of  "  Sherris  sack  "  is 
well  known  :  and  how  craftily  he  glozes  his  own  pet  weaknesses  upon 
other  occasions  : — "  If  sack  and  sugar  be  a  fault  (he  says),  heaven 
help  the  wicked  !  If  to  be  old  and  merry  be  a  sin,  then  many  an  old 
host  that  I  know  is  '  doomed.'  If  to  be  fat  is  to  be  hated,  then 
Pharaoh's  lean  kine  are  to  be  loved."  The  felicity  of  hypocrisy  with 
which  he  can  extenuate  his  misdeeds  soars  into  genius ! 

Dost  thou  hear,  Hal  ?  Thou Jcnowest  in  the  state  of  innocency  Adam  fell ;  and 
what  should  poor  Jack  Falstaff  do  in  the  days  of  villainy  ?  Thou  seest,  I  have 
more  flesh  than  another  man,  and  therefore  more  frailty. 

His  impudence  of  candour  almost  commands  respect, — it  is  so 
bold  : — as  Lord  Ellenborough  said  of  William  Hone  upon  his  trial : 
"  His  impudence  is  sublime  !"  Falstaff  plainly  proclaims  that  if  he 
go  to  the  wars  he  "means  not  to  sweat  extraordinarily;"  adding — 
"  If  it  be  a  hot  day,  an'  I  brandish  anything  but  my  bottle,  I  would  I 
might  never  spit  white  again." 

His  philosophy  of  parsimony  is  edifying.  With  the  means  of  sup- 
porting his  income,  he  complains  :  "  I  can  get  no  remedy  against  this 
consumption  of  the  purse :  borrowing  only  lingers  and  lingers  it  out ; 
but  the  disease  is  incurable." 

How  characteristic  is  his  witty  demand  for  benefit  under  the  name 
of  justice ;  where,  boasting  of  having  taken  Sir  John  Colevile  pri- 
soner, he  desires  a  reward  for  his  achievement,  thus : — 

Let  me  have  right,  and  let  desert  mount. 

324  The  Getitlemans  Magazine. 

P.  John,    Thine's  too  heavy  to  mount. 
Fal.    Let  it  shine  then. 
/\  John.    Thine's  too  thick  to  shine. 

Fal.    Let  it  do  something,  my  lord,  that  may  do  me  good, — and  call  it  what 
you  will. 

How  original  and  how  ludicrous  are  his  exclamations  of  regret ! — 
"A  plague  of  this  sighing  and  grief!  it  blows  a  man  Up  like  a 
bladder ! " 

His  repentant  qualms  are  edifyingly  profligate  in  their  motives  for 
reform ;  and  in  their  illustrations  of  virtuous  resolve  : — u  I'll  starve 
ere  111  rob  a  foot  farther.  An'  'twere  not  as  good  a  deed  as  drink,  to 
turn  true  man  and  leave  these  rogues,  I  am  the  veriest  varlet  that 
ever  chewed  with  a  tooth."  And  then,  the  sleeve-laughing  of  his 
penitence,  when  resolving  to  lead  a  better  life, — "  Well,  I'll  repent, 
and  that  suddenly,  while  I  am  in  some  liking :  I  shall  be  out  of  heart 
shortly,  and  then  I  shall  have  no  strength  to  repent"  And  what  a 
delicious  cant  of  sanctified  roguery  there  is  in  his  declaring  upon 
another  occasion  : — "  Well,  if  my  wind  were  but  long  enough  to  say 
my  prayers  I  would  repent" 

His  protests  against  the  misdeeds  of  others  are  quite  as  full  of 
hypocrisy  in  fun  and  sham  moralising  : — 

Ere  I  lead  this  life  long  I'll  sew  nether  stocks  and  mend  them,  and  foot  them 
too.  A  plague  of  all  cowards !  Give  me  a  cup  of  sack,  boy.  Is  there  no  virtue 
extant  ?  \Drinks.~\  Why,  you  rogue !  Here's  lime  in  this  sack  too.  There's 
nothing  hut  roguery  to  be  found  in  villainous  man.  Yet  a  coward  is  worse  than  a 
cup  of  sack  with  lime  in  it.  Ah  !  a  bad  world,  I  say  !  I  would  I  were  a  weaver : 
I  could  sing  psalms  or  anything.    A  plague  of  all  cowards,  I  say  still. 

His  immortal  philosophising  upon  "  Honour,"  showing  it  to  be  a. 
rank  absurdity — a  dream — a  nonentity — is  as  triumphant  a  piece  of 
satire  as  ever  was  uttered  : — 

Can  honour  set  to  a  leg  ? — No.  Or  an  arm  ? — No.  Or  take  away  the  grief  of 
a  wound  ? — No.  Honour  hath  no  skill  in  surgery  then  ? — No.  What  is  honour  ? 
— A  word.  What  is  that  word  honour  ? — Air. — A  trim  reckoning !  Who  hath 
it  ?— He  that  died  o'  Wednesday.  Doth  he  feel  it  ?— No.  Doth  he  hear  it  ?— 
No.  It  is  insensible  then  ? — Yea,  to  the  dead.  But  will  it  not  live  with  the 
living  ? — No.  Why  ? — Detraction  will  not  suffer  it.  Therefore  I'll  none  of  it. 
Honour  is  a  mere  'scutcheon ;  and  so  ends  my  catechism. 

His  argument  upon  counterfeiting — upon  shamming  to  have  been 
killed,  in  order  to  preserve  life — real,  dear  life — is  an  unanswerable 
digest  of  the  "  philosophy"  of  self-preservation  : — 

Egad,  'twas  time  to  counterfeit,  or  that  hot  termagant  Scot  had  paid  me  scot 
and  lot  too.  Counterfeit  ?  I  lie  :  I  am  no  counterfeit :  To  die  is  to  be  a  coun- 
terfeit ;  for  he  is  but  the  counterfeit  of  a  man  who  hath  not  the  life  of  a  man : 

Shakespeare s  Philosophers  and  Jesters.        325 

but  to  'counterfeit  dying,  when  a  man  thereby  liveth,  is  to  be  no  counterfeit,  but 
the  true  and  perfect  image  of  life  indeed.  The  better  part  of  valour  is  discretion ; 
in  the  which  better  part  I  have  saved  my  life. 

That  sage  sentence — that  "  philosophy"  of  FalstafTs — "  the  better 
part  of  valour  is  discretion,"  has  passed  into  a  proverb — as  well  it 

This  great  character's  brilliant  intellect  not  only  sends  forth  those 
lustrous  coruscations  of  wit  for  which  he  is  famed  ;  not  only  does  it 
irradiate  with  resplendent  humour  every  object  that  comes  within  its 
influence,  but  it  supplies  him  with  keen  perceptions  and  accurate 
amount  of  estimates,  where  the  stock  of  brains  in  others  is  the 
question.  He  has  large  sense,  as  well  as  dazzling  wit ;  staid  under- 
standing, as  well  as  overflowing  humour.  I  could  almost  say  that 
sagacity — natural  sagacity — in  Falstaff,  and  an  uncommon  vouch- 
safement  of  the  highest  common  sense,  form  rival  accomplishments 
to  the  opulence  of  his  imagination  and  the  efflorescence  of  his  fancy. 
His  estimate  of  the  characters  and  understandings  of  all  his  asso- 
ciates and  companions  (from  Prince  Hal  down  to  his  serving  man, 
Bardolph)  amounts  to  absolute  instinct.  To  quote  his  own  words  to 
the  Prince,  he  might  say  of  the  whole  squad  of  them  : — "  By  the 
Lord,  I  know  ye  '  all/  as  well  as  he  that  made  ye."  All  his  comments 
upon  worshipful  Master  Shallow  prove  this  in  a  remarkable  degree. 
Perhaps  the  most  acute  of  these  is  what  he  says  upon  the  relations 
between  Justice  Shallow  and  his  serving-man,  Davy.     He  says : — 

It  is  a  wonderful  thing,  to  see  the  semblable  coherence  of  his  men's  spirits  and 
his :  They,  by  observing  him,  do  bear  themselves  like  foolish  justices :  he,  by 
conversing  with  them,  is  turned  into  a  justice-like  serving-man.  Their  spirits  are 
so  married  in  conjunction  with  the  participation  of  society,  that  they  flock  together 
in  consent,  like  so  many  wild  geese.  If  I  had  a  suit  to  Master  Shallow,  I  would 
humour  his  men  with  the  imputation  of  being  near  their  master :  if  to  his  men,  I 
would  curry  with  Master  Shallow,  that  no  man  could  better  command  his 
servants.  It  is  certain,  that  either  wise  bearing,  or  ignorant  carriage,  is  caught, 
as  men  take  diseases,  one  of  another :  therefore,  let  men  take  heed  of  their 

Yes,  yes  !  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it — Sir  John  Falstaff  cer- 
tainly ranks  among  Shakespeare's  very  choicest  "philosophers," 

Life  in  London. 


COLD  day — a  bitter,  biting  wind  blowing  from  the  north- 
east, and  "  shramming "  the  loungers  in  Palace  Yard 
and  Westminster  Hall,  who  wait  patiently  enough  on 
the  6th  of  February,  1873,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  some- 
thing, they  know  not  what,  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon.  It  is  not 
a  little  singular  that  the  public  seem  never  to  be  quite  certain  in  their 
own  minds  whether  the  Queen  is  or  is  not  to  open  Parliament ;  so 
they  troop  down  to  Westminster,  apparently  uninfluenced  by  the 
statements  of  the  newspapers  that  Parliament  is  to  be  opened  by 
Royal  Commission,  as  indeed  is  the  case.  How  otherwise  could  you 
account  for  their  presence  here  to-day,  when  even  a  Cossack  might 
be  excused  for  shivering  ?  Outside  there  is  positively  nothing  what- 
ever to  see,  for  neither  Mr.  Gladstone,  nor  the  right  honourable 
gentleman  who  leads  Her  Majesty's  Opposition,  nor  any  other  of  the 
Parliamentary  constellations,  puts  in  an  appearance  when  the  Houses 
are  opened  by  Commission ;  and  as  to  their  lordships  of  the  Upper 
Chamber — why,  if  a  dozen  or  so  hereditary  legislators  are  present  the 
number  is  considered  unusually  large.  But,  despite  Her  Majesty's 
absence,  the  ceremonial  observed  on  this  occasion  is  not  absolutely 
devoid  of  colour,  and  we  will  even  be  participators  in  it  Up  many 
stairs,  through  a  long  corridor,  so  dimly  lit  as  to  suggest  reminiscences 
of  a  cathedral,  and  we  are  in  "the  House. "  I  envy  the  feelings  of 
that  person  who  enters  the  House  of  Lords  for  the  first  time.  He 
sees  a  vast  chamber  so  profusely  gilded  and  bedecked  with  ornament, 
so  luxuriously  furnished,  and  invested  with  so  many  traditions,  as  to 
inspire  him  with  reverence  for  those  who  are  privileged  to  take  part 
in  the  debates.  The  throne  and  the  two  gilded  chairs,  occupied,  when 
Her  Majesty  is  present,  by  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales,  are 
uncovered,  and  add  thtir  sheen  to  the  general  lustre  of  the  chamber. 
In  front  of  the  throne,  and  between  it  and  the  "  woolsack,"  is  a  bench 
upon  which  the  Lords  Commissioners  will  presently  take  their  seats. 
Indies  file  into  the  House  by  ones  and  twos ;  an  aged  peer  totters  up 
the  floor  of  the  House,  and  chats  pleasantly  to  such  of  the  audience 
as  he  knows ;  and  the  public  quickly  fill  the  gallery  at  the  far  end. 

Life  in  London.  327 

It  wants  full  half  an  hour  yet  to  the  time  when  the  Commission  and 
the  Royal  Speech  are  to  be  read,  and  as  there  is  nothing  to  occupy 
us — to  borrow  an  expression  from  the  theatre — "  in  front  of  the  house," 
we  will  even  go  "  behind,"  and  glance  at  what  is  going  on  there. 
The  large  ante-room  at  the  rear  of  the  throne  presents  a  rather  curious 
sight  just  now,  and  one  which  will  commend  itself  to  the  visitor. 
Well  may  you  hold  your  breath  as  you  gaze  upon  the  novel  scene, 
which  it  is  given  to  very  few  "  strangers  "  to  witness  once,  perhaps, 
in  a  lifetime.  Do  you  see  that  amiable-looking  gentleman  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room,  talking  to  an  attendant  ?  We  used  to  know  him  in 
the  Courts  as  Sir  Roundell  Palmer,  but  now  he  is  Baron  Selborne, 
Lord  High  Chancellor  of  England,  Keeper  of  the  Great  Seal,  and,  by 
a  constitutional  fiction,  of  the  Sovereign's  conscience  also.  Although 
Sir  Roundell  was  raised  to  the  Woolsack  ever  so  long  ago — we  live  so 
fast  nowadays  that  weeks  go  for  months  and  months  for  years — he 
appears  in  his  official  position  as  Parliamentary  Head  for  the  first 
time  to-day ;  and,  as  you  will  have  already  observed,  he  wears  the 
black  gown  and  the  long  flowing  wig  which  he  dons  in  the  Court  of 
Chancery  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  or  when  he  hears  appeal  cases  in  the 
House  of  Lords. 

Place  for  another  great  functionary,  who  is  to  play  a  leading 
part  in  the  piece.  If  you  are  a  student  of  certain  popular  carica- 
tures, you  will  have  seen  the  portrait  of  a  tall,  well-made,  grave- 
visaged  gentleman,  whom  the  irreverent  artist  has  drawn  with  his 
hat  very  much  over  his  eyes ;  and  you  will  at  once  recognise  the 
Lord  Chamberlain.  He  is  in  morning  dress  at  this  moment,  but 
you  have  scarcely  recovered  from  your  surprise  at  finding  yourself  in 
such  close  proximity  to  the  high  official  at  the  mention  of  whose  name 
ballet  girls  tremble  and  stage-managers  turn  pale,  when  you  see,  with 
astonished  eyes,  that  his  lordship  has  undergone  a  metamorphosis, 
and  now  appears  in  a  brave  scarlet  gown,  trimmed  with  three  bars  of 
ermine,  as  befits  his  rank  as  a  viscount  of  the  United  Kingdom.  As 
two  o'clock  approaches  there  is  something  like  excitement  in  the 
apartment  which  I  have  taken  leave  to  call  the  "  green-room ;"  the 
attendants  robe  the  Earl  of  Cork,  the  Marquis  of  Ripon,  and 
the  Earl  of  Kimberley  in  their  scarlet  gowns,  and  hand  them  their 
cocked  hats ;  a  little  procession  is  formed  of  the  mace-bearer,  the 
purse-bearer,  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  the  four  other  Lords  Com- 
missioners; and  precisely  as  Big  Ben  chimes  two,  the  representatives 
of  the  Queen  enter  the  House,  bow  gravely  to  the  few  peers  present — 
there  are  some  fifteen  in  all — and  then  take  their  seats  on  the  bench 
between  the  throne  and  the  woolsack.     The  formality  of  "opening" 

3  28  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

Parliament  now  begins,  according  to  the  precedents  laid  down,  and 
from  which  no  departure  is  ever  made.  Still  seated,  the  Lord 
Chancellor,  whose  appearance  is  all  the  more  striking  because  of 
his  sombre  garb,  informs  their  lordships,  represented  by  eight 
Conservative  and  seven  Liberal  peers,  and  a  few  bishops,  that  the 
Queen,  not  finding  it  convenient  to  open  Parliament  in  person, 
has  devolved  that  duty  upon  the  Royal  Commissioners,  who  are 
named  in  the  Letters  Patent,  which  you  may  see  spread  out  upon 
the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  House.  This  State  document  the 
Clerk,  Mr.  Slingsby  Bethel,  now  proceeds  to  read — each  Com- 
missioner taking  off  his  hat  as  his  name  is  mentioned  by  the  official 
at  the  table.  Then  you  see  a  slim  gentleman  in  black,  wearing 
knee  breeches,  silk  stockings,  and  buckled  shoes,  and  carrying  a 
wand,  who,  by  dint  of  long  practice,  has  acquired  to  a  nicety  the 
difficult  art  of  walking  backwards  without  tripping  or  being  tripped 
up.  This  is  Colonel  Clifford,  Deputy  Usher  of  the  Black  Rod,  a 
post  which  his  father,  Sir  Augustus  Clifford,  has  worthily  held  for 
many  years.  With  sedate  steps  he  now  hies  him  to  the  other  House, 
to  desire  its  members  to  attend  in  the  House  of  Lords  and  hear  the 
Queen's  Speech  read  by  the  Lord  Chancellor ;  and  in  a  parenthesis- 
let  me  note  that  when  the  Queen  is  present  the  Commons  are  com- 
manded to  attend  Her  Majesty  immediately  in  the  House  of  Peers* 
while  by  the  Royal  Commissioners  their  attendance  is  only  desired. 

In  the  Lower  House  the  members  have  been  gathering  fast  for  the 
last  hour,  waiting  for  the  summons  from  the  Commissioners ;  and  as, 
unlike  Sir  Boyle  Roche's  bird,  we  can  be  in  two  places  at  once — in 
the  spirit  if  not  in  the  flesh — let  us  for  a  brief  quarter  of  an  hour  see 
what  is  doing  in  the  Lower  House.  The  first  member  to  make  his 
appearance  in  the  Parliamentary  arena  is  Mr.  George  Dixon,  one  of 
the  three  members  for  Birmingham,  and  a  lasting  example  of  the 
advantage  to  be  derived  from  taking  up  a  particular  subject  and 
"  sticking "  to  it.  Mr.  Dixon  is  a  shining  light  of  the  Birmingham 
Education  League,  and  he  has  made  the  educational  topic  the 
hobby-horse  upon  which  to  ride  into  something  very  nearly 
approaching  to  Parliamentary  celebrity.  By  no  means  a  brilliant 
speaker,  Mr.  Dixon  has  worked  at  this  one  subject  until  he  knows 
every  phase  of  it  by  heart,  and  he  "  orates  "  upon  it  with  consider- 
able satisfaction  to  himself  and  not  a  little  to  the  admiration  of  some 
of  his  Parliamentary  friends  below  the  gangway,  among  whom  he 
holds  a  respectable  position.  Almost  simultaneously  with  the  en- 
trance of  the  Birmingham  educationist  comes  Mr.  Locke  King,  a 
legislative  veteran  whose  hair  has  grown  grey  in  the  service  of  the 

Lift  in  London.  329 

State,  and  who  is  shortly  to  receive  a  substantial  token  of  the  esteem 
and  regard  in  which  he  is  held  by  his  friends.     Presently  members 
appear  in  shoals :  Mr.  George  Bentinck,  the  member  for  West  Norfolk, 
taking  his  old  place  in  the  corner  seat  of  the  front  Opposition  bench 
below  the  gangway,  from  whence  he  is  wont  to  survey  the  House  in 
a  sternly-paternal  manner,  and  to  glance  around  him  with  much  the 
same  hauteur  as  that  exhibited  by  a  "heavy  father"  on  the  stage. 
We  all  noted  the  absence  on   the  opening  day  of  the  mercurial 
member  for  Whitehaven,  whose  aspiration  it  is  to  be  a  thorn  in  the 
flesh  of  Mr.  Gladstone  and  of  his  own  chief  as  well.     But  the  two 
famous  Leaders  appear  more  amused  than  hurt  at  Mr.  Cavendish 
Bentinck's  attacks,  and  the  House  in  general  laughs  heartily  at  them, 
to  the  great  indignation  and  annoyance  of  the  honourable  gentleman, 
who  is  Quixotic  to  the  backbone.     While  we  are  regarding  the  fast 
incoming  members,  we  both  see  and  hear  a  little  disturbance  outside, 
and  the  cry  of  "Black  Rod!"  comes  in  stentorian  tones  from  the 
mouth  of  Mr.  White,  the  principal  doorkeeper,  and,  it  may  be  added, 
the  whilom  contributor  of  the  clever  sketches  of  Parliamentary  life 
and  manners  which  used  to  appear  in  a  now  defunct  illustrated 
paper.     The  doors  are  hastily  closed,  and  the  key  is  turned  upop 
"  Black  Rod,"  who  thereupon  gives  three  knocks  on  the  portal  with 
his  wand,  and  craves  admittance.     Looking  through  a  little  eyelet, 
not  unlike  that  which  you  may  have  seen  in  a  prison  cell,  the  official 
within  the  House  first  ascertains  beyond  a  doubt  that  the  applicant 
is  what  he  represents  himself  to  be,  and  then  admits  him;  upon 
which  "Black  Rod"  walks  up  the  floor,  making  obeisance  three 
times,  and,  having  arrived  at  the  table,  informs  the  Speaker  of  the 
nature  of  his  business,  and  then  backs  out  of  the  House.     Prayers 
have  been  previously  said;  the  Speaker,  upon  the  appearance  of 
"  Black  Rod,"  has   taken  his  seat  in  his  chair  after  sitting  a  short 
time  at  the  table,  and  now  leads  the  way  to  the  Upper  House, 
preceded    by   the   Sergeant-at-Arms,   Lord    Charles    Russell,   who 
carries    the    heavy    mace,    and    followed,    in    rather    disorderly 
fashion,  by  perhaps  one  hundred  members,  who  range  themselves  as 
best  they  may  at  what  is  by  courtesy  called  "  the  bar,"  but  which  in 
reality  is  more  like  a  sheep-pen  than  anything  else.     This  rush  to  the 
bar  has  some  affinity  to  a  school  "  scramble,"  and  those  engaged 
appear  to  derive  as  much  entertainment  from  it  as  do  our  young 
friends  at  Dr.  Whackem's  when  participating  in  a  distribution  of 
sweets.    The  poor  Speaker  is  not  better  treated  than  the  most  modest 
and  unassuming  member  pf  the  Legislature ;  indeed,  he  is  rather 
worse  off  than  the  others,  for  he  stands  in  the  front  row,  and  must 

330  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

consequently  put  up  with  a  great  deal  of  inconvenience  in  the  shape 
of  pushing  about     Comparatively  few  well  known  faces  are  seen 
among   that   struggling  crowd  at  the  bar;    but   you   cannot  help 
noticing  the  fine  head  and  strongly  marked  features  of  that  staunch 
defender  of  the  Church,  Mr.  Beresford-Hope,  whom  Mr.   Disraeli 
cruelly  credited  with  possessing  "  Batavian  grace ;"  while  behind  him 
is  Mr.  Peter  Rylands,  the  Radical  member  for  Warrington,  who,  as 
an  "  independent "  representative,  sitting  among  the  Irreconcilables 
below  the  Ministerial  gangway,  seems  never  to  have  made  up  his 
mind  whether  to  defend  or  attack  Mr.  Gladstone.    Watchful  of  every 
word  contained  in  Her  Majesty's  Speech,  stands  Mr.  Edgar  Bowring, 
who,  inasmuch  as  he  is  nearly  the  first  to  take  his  seat  in  the  other 
House  and  the  last  to  leave  it,  may  be  regarded  as  bidding,  in  this 
undemonstrative  and  gentle  fashion,  for  some  position  in  which  his 
administrative  capabilities  may  be   exercised  for  the  good  of  his 
country.     Only  a  few  of  the  "country  party w  have  followed  the 
Speaker  into  the  Upper  House,  and  these  gentlemen  are  easily 
recognised  by  the  healthy  bloom  upon  their  faces  and  their  general 
"  hearty  "  appearance,  offering  a  striking  contrast  to  those  dark-visaged 
French  attaches  up  in  the  Diplomatic  Gallery  who  are  so  regardful 
of  all  that  is  going  forward,  as  well  as  to  that  magnificently  attired 
gentleman  near  them.    There  is  one  very  well  known  diplomat  in  that 
gallery  to-day — an  English-looking   man    from  head  to  foot,   and 
clad  in  our  orthodox  morning  dress.     This  is  General  Schenck,  the 
American  Minister,  who  listens  intently  to  that  curious  literary  com- 
pound, the  Queen's  Speech,  and  for  whom  some  references  to  a  cer- 
tain Arbitration  have  the  greatest  conceivable  interest    The  United 
States  General  is  accompanied  by  his  daughter,  and  there  are  also  in 
the  ambassadors'  gallery  two  or  three  other  ladies,  who,  like  the  fifty 
or  sixty  who  have  taken  up  their  places  on  the  red  benches  below, 
are  in  morning  dress.      When  the   Queen  opens    Parliament  the 
peeresses  troop  down  to  the  House  clad  in  robes  of  those  rainbow 
hues  prescribed  by  Fashion  and  Le  Follcf,  and  then  is  the  Upper 
Chamber  a  sight  to  see — a  garden  of  beauty  and  colour.    But  to-day 
there  are  no  gaily-dressed,  diamonded  peeresses,  and  consequently 
only  the  faintest  flush  of  colour  illumines  the  House — indeed,  but  for 
the  presence  of  Admiral  Fedrigo  Pasha,  who  is  bravely  dad  in  a 
dark  blue  uniform,  rich  with  gold  lace  and  bullion  epaulettes,  and 
whose  sword  gleams  with  the  same  shining  metal,  the  eyes  of  the 
spectators  would  rest  upon  nothing  more  attractive  in  the  matter  of 
costume  than  the  scarlet  and  ermine  robes  of  Her  Majesty's  Commis- 
sioners, the  Marquis  of  Ripon,  the    Earl  of  Cork,   the   Earl  of 

Life  in  London.  331 

Kimberley,  and  Viscount  Sydney  (substituted  at  the  eleventh 
hour  in  the  room  of  Viscount  Halifax,  who  was  not  well  enough  to 
be  present).  Taking  a  glance  round  the  House,  the  rich,  heavy 
ornamentation  of  which  strikes  you  the  more  you  see  it,  we  remark 
that,  with  some  half  a  dozen  exceptions,  all  the  lady  spectators  of 
the  show  have  ranged  themselves  on  the  benches  of  Her  Majesty's 
Opposition,  and  that  nothing  meets  their  wistful  gaze  but  row  after 
row  of  unoccupied  red  leather  benches. 

Another  singular  event  strikes  us.  On  the  episcopal  benches  are 
seven  bishops — neither  more  nor  less — which  carries  us  back  in 
imagination  to  the  reign  of  the  second  James  and  his  cruel  persecu- 
tion of  Lloyd,  Kerr,  Turner,  Lake,  White,  Trelawney,  and  the 
primate  Sancroft.  Yes,  to-day  these  right  reverend  prelates,  arrayed 
in  lawn  "  white  as  the  driven  snow,"  might  echo  the  Wordsworthian 
chant,  "  We  are  seven,"  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  the  utterance  of 
any  sounds  of  harmony  in  this  sacred  chamber  would  be  followed 
by  instant  arrest  and  an  uncertain  period  of  imprisonment  in  that 
"  deep  dungeon  "  specially  reserved  for  the  incarceration  of  political 
offenders.  The  bishops  are  lucky,  for  among  them  sit  the  six 
ladies  to  whom  reference  has  been  made,  and  who  appear  in  no  wise 
disconcerted  at  being  in  such  high  ecclesiastical  company. 

The  preparations  for  "  opening  the  Houses  "  are  now  complete ; 
the  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  two ;  and  the  young  Japanese  students 
up  in  the  gallery  yonder,  who  have  been  chatting  in  their  native 
tongue  until  now  concerning  our  "  barbarian  "  customs,  cease  talking, 
while  a  respectful  hush  comes  over  the  assembly,  among  which  are 
but  fifteen  peers,  all  told.  The  most  prominent  among  these  is 
Lord  Buckhurst,  a  true  "